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honeybee Jul 2017
i could be a garden, i think. i am overgrown; i am filled with green grass and trees and crawling with bugs and life. my heart causes the flowers to bloom and my lungs cast cool breezes or gusts of winds. the weather is up to my brain: some days could be thunderous and full of grey clouds, while others are colorful and warm.
people occupy the spaces inside of me. some run about, plucking tiny daisies from the ground, desperate to take home some of the beauty. i offer all i can, for i am desperate for company. but no one wishes to live inside a garden, they only wish to visit.
your visit was brief. you came at the end of summer. at first, i was blooming and beautiful. the sun was shining; the flowers were colorful. i was green with blue skies, and when the sun went down, i was painted orange and pink. sure, there were pesky mosquitos and rainy days, but the world was lovely and bright.
but then winter came.
the sky turned grey and all the pink petals fell. you walked through the grass, looked at the cloudy skies above you, and knew it was time to leave. you wouldn’t stay for long. who would? i turn cold and empty. nothing can survive inside of me.
besides, a storm was coming. you knew it was going to rain, and i wasn’t the beautiful garden you thought i was. i had nothing more to offer you.
i longed for the ability to let the sun shine down on you; i wished i could cast aside the clouds, turn off the thunder that was roaring. but summer had ended and my brain could no longer bring such warm thoughts.
the raindrops fell and as soon as you felt the drips on your shoulder, you left.
yes, i could be a garden. i am full of rosebuds and seeds; i am full of beauty waiting to be uncovered after a storm.
honeybee Apr 2016
new day
new page,
fill in with color

make myself
a masterpiece

museums full
of pieces like me,
i'm trying to find
some originality

but there's
under the sun

perhaps in another universe
i'd be unique
those new eyes would
find something beautiful
in me
will i ever leave an impact?
honeybee Feb 2016
for years they have wandered,
they have tip-toed through wonderlands and graveyards,
through cities and villages, through meadows and forests
you can tell from the scars that they were damaged,
that each terrain made a mark on their fragile skin

we spend an absurd amount of attention
on how those marks came to be; not enough
on the middle, who struggles to wash them off


i will not tell you how
they felt as a tiny speck of pink dust
being brought into this enormous universe;
but i can repeat the story of their
breeze of a birth, a breath of fresh air

i will not tell you how
they felt changing addresses;
but i can repeat the story of how
their family packed their bags
and moved two blocks away,
leaving their father to grow
a collection of empty bottles
in his empty apartment


i will tell you of the time
they found a constant star
in their ever-changing sky;
it burned them with each touch,
but they kept coming back,
intoxicated by the light
this star burned too bright for
our flickering lightbulb of a hero

i will tell you of the time
they changed zip codes, twice
in the span of eight months;
lost everything except for
dusty yearbooks,
hidden scars,
and a broken body.
each land pushed our hero
into infectious isolation
our hero began to grow in,
but they wanted to grow out

i will tell you of the time
they stared into another person's eyes;
felt caterpillars crawling
in their stomach,
unsure if they would grow
into moths or butterflies
but these caterpillars
never wove a cocoon
and our hero was left with
wriggling worms in their stomach

i will not tell you of the past
if it does not affect the present.
old scars are no concern;
they are only reminders that
the past was real

this life they lead
is something in-between;
between firsts and lasts
between new scars and old
between beginnings and endings

this origin story is being rewritten.
a bit of a long one.
honeybee Feb 2016
i am made from sand;
thousand of tiny specks
melted together to make
a complete piece
someone sifted the sand before
making me
pieces of me were lost

i am lost at sea,
fragments of my identity
flowing in the waves

i am trying to drown myself,
swallowing salt water to fill my stomach
searching for something to make me whole
i've been gone for a while, found out i might have to move.
honeybee Jan 2016
ribs shattering,
i can feel the cage
opening, letting loose
the butterflies that were
trapped inside

there was once a garden
in my chest, yes,
lungs with
lovely lilies
and lavender
laid around but

you knew of the garden,
you could smell roses on my breath
you could hear the butterfly's wings

you tore the beauty out of me

there will be no beauty six feet above me,
there will be no love from you
for you want all the flowers for yourself

do i not deserve pretty things?
honeybee Jan 2016
staring at you,
i can see that

eyes are not the window to the soul
if so, your curtains are shut
a peeping tom can't see you
exposed, vulnerable,

a bare soul is about as naked as we get

i see,
love and hope,
i see,
fear and anxiety,
i see,
pieces of me

and then i realize:
eyes are mirrors
honeybee Jan 2016
your fingers,

my heart

chest closing,
skin tightens

eyes close,
i see
not you -
the one

the one with the thorns
for hair and claws for nails,

the one
who kissed me
and stole my soul

the one who
tore me apart
and left me
to piece myself
back together
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