Picking Apples

There’s so many apples on a tree,

How do you know which one to pick?

The one with the best shape?

The one with the best color?

The one with the longest stem?

You know who picked me?

I picked me.

I didn’t have to be last.

Because I finally learned,

What it meant to put me first.

The others will call this selfish.

The survivors will know.

That when the wind blows,

The only choice

Is to go with the flow.

Survival.

Safety.

It’s easier to blend in with the peck,

Than to stand out among the rest.

Until it becomes too dark.

Like the bark

On a burnt tree.

The roots might still be there,

But what once stood tall and free.

Has changed.

Hidden.

Drooping.

Picked off.

Or so it seemed.

Until one day,

The wind blew,

In a different direction.

The road less traveled.

The one society,

Pretended not to see.

The one they tell you and

Sell you to ignore.

Got to get to the inside,

Before it rots to the core.

You know what they don’t say?

That some apples

Are just bad for the bunch.

And that when you eat

Them for lunch

They begin

To get you too.

That’s why it’s important

at the end of the day,

To stand up

In your own lane.

Because if you let the world

Tell you who to be,

It’s like choosing poison,

Choosing death,

Without choosing to be seen.

For who you really are.

You know which apple I picked?

I picked me.