Do Bees Like Poetry Too?
I want to write a poem that tastes like static,
Not something that simply mimics the buzz.
Sweat bees never struck me as anything
Special, but pollinating thoughts across
Stanzas of bumbling seems to leave me,
Exasperated, exhausted, perspiring.
So, show me;
Steady my breaths,
Sand down my edges,
And let the sweat slide
Down my brow.
When I was younger, I used to hum a certain note.
When I was completely concentrated, condensed,
Coordinated, collapsed into a singularity of focus,
I had found then, the trick of writing poetry.
Poetry is not found in a web of pretty threads,
Nor does it lie beneath the rock of your petty dreads.
Poetry is a single-minded, thousand hums,
A fusillade of firearms, a gathering of guns.
Relentlessly layered, like lines on a page,
A steady march on a single way.
Like bees to a flower,
Or blood in a vein.
Poetry is pointed,
Purpose-driven pain.
Cut my lips, burn my tongue,
Scrape my skin and hold open my eyes.
Let me see the stinger now.
A single drop of venom;
A numbness born of stinging pain.
A starving dog thinks not of sorrow,
A hungry stomach, not a hungry heart,
So set my forgotten nerves alight;
Remind me what I lost,
Of the note I hummed those nights
