Apple Picking

Starving hands reach up and out,

to the last ripe apple tree.

Clasping onto the one soul,

its teeth sink into the fruit.

The shell deflates, mush and rot into its mouth.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741