there's a messy ire born of quiet;
one i can never describe to you--
it bends and weeps sun-kissed violet,
its purple is lovely on very few.
i string my voice on power lines
like deserted shoes ******* in knots;
there isn't voice more foul than mine,
i fear to hear the words it brought.
they meet you as would foreign tongue
and dance upon the ears so manic,
until they all seep from my lungs
and undo my scalp in panic.
my mind's a nest of wasps and bees
building hives and killing each other,
urged on my this eternal disease
until each one is all but smothered.
the honey produced is rich and gold
and fools me sweetly as it brews,
for even so, it grows the mold
that stains my eyes green and blue.
the rebuke received upon my tone
rattles my head and stirs the hive,
and so it groans a wicked drone
in these rotten ears of mine.
the wasps burrow through my throat,
and the bees sting at my tongue
until my voice swells up and bloats
and come forth the blight they stung.