I reach up to the top my memory tree and pick the fruit with my deepest feelings,

I squeeze the juice from it onto my paper,

The mess i’ve made, that dirty colour, that’s my life,

That is my key to unlock the door of my new poem,

Although it’s always the skin of the poem we bite first,

I just serve the juice.

I let out rage and whatever i’m holding inside

I never hide from the truth or tell myself a lie about how i’m really feeling

The trick is to never try to paint a picture the poem can’t understand

Paint the picture of real life

I utilize the colours of my fruits

Whether i loved or hated the taste of it before.