Rotten Apple

 The stars above my head
shine bright, bright red,
everything around me looks
 dead, dead, dead.
 
 I stand on the thing that
I truly despise,
wearing a disguise
of dirt. 
It devours me from the
inside till the outside,
washing me up like a vigorous 
tide.

 The rotten apple spins of hate
and poison, the darkness
blossoms like a beautiful lotus,
so much fate,
so rarely joyous like a crooked wire,
add a little choir.
Sometimes love is not enough,
so it gets rough,
feels like a scratchy cough.