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sandra wyllie
Poems
May 2019
Little Green Apples
These abused children
grow up to be the neurotic
adults you see. You encounter them
at work, in the stores, in the gym
in your own therapist, a homonym of
the latter. Whatβs it matter? It
matters everything. They go on spreading
the germ, like a worm in an apple. God didnβt make
little green apples to be eaten by worms
Written by
sandra wyllie
56/F
(56/F)
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