The BlackberrySitting here,
my juices leaking out
onto the plastic surface.
What’s my purpose?
I often get looked over
or shoved to the back, where it’s the most boreal.
Each little violet balloon,
attached by another,
like a tight-knit family.
This makes up my exterior
At times I find acquaintances absent.
Too often we are separated.
Our kind may be reused over and over,
but not like those defile sponges
being wafted up throughout the kitchen.
I tend to remind them of warm days,
not too far away
I feel refreshed and relieved
That I no longer sit along side
The ‘Yoplait Originals’ or the granny smith’s
Unlike them, we are much more.
Much too frequently, it’s difficult to see my contents
behind my sticker label.
It is wrapped ever so tightly
around the plastic container.
To others we may just be “Product of the U.S.A”, next to a long bar code.
I wish they would judge me by what lies inside,
behind my purple exterior,
rather than the falsely written label.
My skin may be smooth and delicate,
but one taste on your pallet and my strength is rediscovered
I may be a deep amethyst speck
yet again, going unnoticed
Close up however, our values shine
Our smell, our taste, our shape is a familiar kind
I am not black, no, not blue or cran
I am a blackberry, simply picked by man.