The Orchard
Spare the rod; spoil the child.
And the worst thing in the world
is a spoiled child.
You scrap off my skin,
calling it mold.
Put me in the medical waste bin.
Hand me the rod,
let it burn the cuts on my hands.
You have not beaten me in all the right places.
I am still mildrew and yellow pus.
The scalpel doesn't rid my tumors.
The shots don't cure my rabies.
I have made a mockery of your rod,
so I carve a new one from my spine.
One bad apple spoils the bunch.
When the fruit rots,
does it call itself a sinner?
Gender:
Points: 780
Reviews: 31