Oh my dear bumble bee
She said as she caressed
her soft honey colored hair.

Stay humble
through your flight so high.
Emerge with a special glee
Of bustling-buzzing excitement.

Let your golden stripped wings
Carry you to scope lands for enchantment.
To collect those dusty pollen
and transfigure them to honey
for you and others.

A honey comb of a heart
Resides in you my dear
So allow the honey to drip from your tongue.

And when science tries to prove
With their theories and mathematical proportions
that you can not fly high
Let them taste the sweetness
Of your hustle
and the sight of your flight.

You notice the
bruises of many hues
painted across the ****** canvas
reflecting through the shade of mood.

You ask what happened?
But this question
would require me to break open the surface;
permeate my skin
for you to dissect,
explore the source
analyse and
do the autopsy of my past.

But I am not ready to show you
more than the bleed
that is close to the surface
threatening to break.

Ferocity has burnt away,
all what remains are embers
fading and diffusing 
wth sorrow cascading 
down my cheek.

You met my concern with ignorance
and walked away in silence,
leaving me to lament over the coming days 
as I plunge into the dark abyss
unexplained.

Your leave,
****** the warmth
leaving me to gaze upon the horizons of loneliness
and the stars that now grow cold.

The night bleeds into morning, 
The sun dissolves the moon.
As I ache at the page in front of me
and at the vulnerability I showed you.

Every morning,
it takes a monumental effort to peel off myself from the bed
fighting gravity to sit up
as I become the ghost 
of different thoughts that run through me.

Hope is still ruffling its feather
and the bond remains stagnant, 
But I am too tired to stay,
too broken to cry.

So I pinch my fingers 
on something beautiful within
a star dripping with black infinity;
a hope to care for myself
to healing and to move on.

I don't understand
why are we concealing our heaviness
our heartaches
our blues
behind laughter.
Packaging them as humor
and art with a ribbon on top
when it's dark raw and pain
I don't understand
why we aren't talking about it.
Because it is just becoming worse
for you, I everyone.

These thoughts have no voice
As they rot in my mind
poisoning my body
as they flow through my veins.
But they are safer here
than in the hands of others.

These words written
are more understood and accepted
than the ones, I wear and speak.
My thoughts are tucked
safely in these words
than the ones I disclose to people.
My pen never
leaves
decieves
hurt
hide
and judge
like people do.
It just pours ink for me to craft
and offers paper for me to be listened.

People are here.
I reach out deep within
to the place of various hue and vibrancy
to paint it in the air and on me
but that place is empty.