Thursday, April 18, 2013

Day 7: Rotten Apples by Hana Aw-Dahir

Children manifest toys into guns, fun into danger
Potential into waste, while marrying today in hopes of burning tomorrow
All while parents are asleep, but why bother keeping awake?

Rotten apples make for sour pies, I relinquish my slice

Why bother awaking the dead just to inform them about the living
Your daughter is self-administering heroin in the alley where she lost her virginity
Your proud son has swept his last tear while swinging his rainbow colored noose around his delicate neck
You are oblivious to the noise of rotting apples left neglected.
Pretending to salvage what was once whole
Now unrecognizable mush
You make pie out of rotten apples, and utter everything will be okay
You say what you do not know, complacent from abundance of sleep
And ignorant to the signs
Frankly, your taste buds have rotten along with those apples

Tracing back to the roots, infestation has taken the tree, infecting the fruit
Unseen to the naked eye, it all stems from the cyclic neglect; rejecting the truth
All must be annihilated to contain the spread and all fingers point back at you

Had the grower been aware of the seeds, nothing would have ever been planted
I repeat, rotten apples make for sour pies, I relinquish my slice

Hana Aw-Dahir
Copyright© 2013

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