Apples are for those Below

Got divorced.

Slept on my sister’s couch.

Could’ve called her a bitch. Didn’t.

Held that in my mouth.

Tears when I lost my daughter.

Society thinks men don’t desire to be fathers.

Six figure income dwindled to zero. All of a sudden the marriage has a problem.

But not in the Lexus. You sung so much could’ve dropped an album.

I cooked you eggs, bacon, and grits. The marriage was lit.

Yup I couldn’t catch fashion. Yet today it’s you throwing a fit.

We reap what we sow—three baby daddies. Thought it’d be sweet, until it’s you who caught cavities.

Then my best friend from high school betrayed me. A tragedy.

Left a knife in my back. Now, when I stand up, I’m special, like a Katt Williams comedy.

Supposedly, apple trees, don’t eat apples. They drink water. The apples are for those below—the good friends. Or those who grow colder.