Rotting Seeds

Apples form a strange root, you know?
They are simply from the earth.
Could you give birth too? Like this world
I need an Apple to satisfy me.
What about a child?
That would too do. Would it not?

You father has become but a blot
On this apple of mine, which I chew
Hard, and fast, without remorse, I spew.
A worm, in this apple you labored for me,
Eats the rest of the apple, leaving but little,
And I skoff it down in a hurry, Mrs. Not Me,
Though it is but dittle. I laugh at your
Produce. I’ll plant seeds from your apple core,

And they will be mine, not yours. I cast you like
I would cast a seedless apple. Worthless. A dike
I build around my field, and I only converse with strangers.
Players become nothing, and I plant myself a future,
That the world will learn about, through proclaimers.
I am simply what this world needs, something to gap the fissure.