He was an apple in their eyes, a refreshing thought to tired, dry minds.
His cheeks would flare a toasty shade of crimson every time his laughter would spill into the air,
Spreading the word of good joy through flying endorphins, reach the heart of every girl and every boy, touch something within
And frowns would wonder of their existence as they slowly curved to reach the skies,
And hands would be insulted had they not shaken his hand first.
"Mr. Perfection," they dubbed him.
He, whose looks rivaled princes and models,
He, whose grades soared with stars and planets,
He, whose personality was as golden as his heart,
He, whose flaws no one dared to find (because he had none).
An apple indeed he was.
Yet, he wondered and he thought and he pondered and he fought for
Wrestling within his crown of charm, angered and fueled by thoughts most imperfect, stood two forces whose
Fight had lasted since the age of five, where
His fingers were first forced to tremble across the piano keys while his heart screamed to be released outdoors.
"Another hour," Mum cooed, except it was two and
Thankfully, he did receive his wish
Only to be driven to partake in French classes and art a moment later.
An apple indeed he was.
His parents polished him since a very young age, taught him the formula that would ultimately grow into a forest within his brain,
"A good apple," they said, "Comes from a good seed."
And so, they watered him with high-quality milk and honey and ("Honey, are you insane? You can't give him a bite of your pizza!")
And exposed him to the light of his apple cousins and three hour classes after school and ("School's not a safe place to make friends, sweetie. Only play with the smart kids!")
And let him breathe in all that nice, fresh air in between language lessons and martial arts ("But not too long, dear. We don't want you to waste time.")
And underneath their infinite wisdom and care, he grew.
His fingers became fine instruments of music, strummers of guitar strings and dancers of piano keys and
His arms became metal, solid and sculpted, prone to every little stimulus that would flicker his way and
His tongue became enchanted, a song that could hypnotize people of all walks to his charm and his aura and
Most importantly,
His humanity had been cookie-cut all nice and neatly, cleaned of any impurities that dared trample his parents' efforts and
An apple indeed he was.
And finally,
Finally,
His parents were proud.
("Thank goodness we dehumanized him.")
A/N: I received the inspiration to write this after reading a really smart, awesome poem by the lovely cleverwren. For those interested on seeing their piece (which is a bazillion times better than mine!), you can take a look at their book entitled "Contest Entries". There's only one chapter there, so you shouldn't have much of a problem finding it.
So, I hope you all are content with this poem. I've received some prompts from you guys, of which I shall try my best to write about. However, I'll still be happy to accept any more prompts and ideas, should you guys wish to give me some.
Anyway, it's 3AM here and I gotta sleep, so night night, peeps. :)
YOU ARE READING
Bittersweet | #Wattys2016
PoetryPoems aren't just meant to be read; they're meant to be tasted too. A short compilation of food-themed poetry; roughly around thirty in total. Anyone ready for their meal of a lifetime? :)
