picking away at the truest of trues,
the reddest of reds.
Until what is left but a vessel.
And what once filled this body?
those beautiful emotions?
Well those have been picked, pruned, and fertilized until nothing is left on my apple tree but a few bug bitten leaves and just when i think its all for the better, that i soon will forget the bittersweet flavor of an unripen apple,
a baby green one sprouts.
And immediately thousands of people are rushed to the scene to prude and destroy this little apple until it is no more.
Because what is an emotion until it is spoken?
What is a feeling until it is shared?
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