author's note; intensity has defined the lilt of my writer's verse for too long. i began spinning words together in hate, dissolution, discontent, rage, intimacy. vines have sprouted out of my fingertips in litany, and praying to what, i do not know. at their birth, it has meant to sound the chimes of renegade, of something subversive and insurgent. yet, when connecting emotion to balladry, my truth got lost in the leaves covering the path; reused and certainly not reverenced with my own divinity. clearing the way, i found beauty in the dirt, and i found beauty in how my fingers felt in no one's hands. i found peace in the untouched and did not dare taint it with my own perspective. but it seems that i simply cannot hold back my own observations, my own memories from the trees that are filled to the brim with apple blossoms and lotus flowers. every writer does not set off to write, and no writer ever believes that they will be great. beforehand, following others is what i wanted to do, i would rather never shout metaphors again than not create from what has already been created. but i have created the path i need to begin walking on my own. the dam will not be breaking again, it is patched and mended. i would rather be playing in the still water everyone believes i have forced to pool.
except it does not feel contrived this time. take everything from my words, or take nothing at all.