I Dream Of Apples Poem by Faith Wood

Strip me down until I'm as bare as Harlem
I never planned on as escape
As cold as an empty cellar,
I keep to myself, stay out of your way

Too bad this city's too crowded
I feel so manic, my senses on high
Buzzing around, I'm an angry hornet
My nest is too congested, but I refuse to fly

I thought I could live the Apple's Dream
but I think before I'd ripe, I'd rot
I'd rather stay fresh on the tree,
Pick if you so choose, or else when I'm ready, I'll fall.