I once sat here on my balcony
-around this time I think-
Writing songs out
Phonetically for you all to read..
Eventually I decided to just set
Paper and crayons
On fire while surrounded by
Those three dead bees my mother killed
With my chancleta earlier...
**** was brutal because she was
Yelling while killing them...
And I remember that I couldn't help
But laugh at her and her distraught!
I imagined her as a ******* vocalist for my band..
I think she'd suit a straight-edge band though..
Maybe some Christcore..
But she hates my music and we've grown apart.

But just as I was sitting here melting
And burning stuff, and writing stuff amongst the dead,
I was sitting with them, the bees,
For those past few days when they were alive..
I even took pictures and videos..  
I can imagine myself saying "I didn't want them to die"
Because perhaps I didn't want them to die.

"Go **** them! Death to bees! Take this broom! It's on the net!"
But I didn't do it.

I once sat here on my balcony
Around this particular time and
Wrote a similar poem..

I once, but in intervals, did twice
The movement of a single brisk breeze
For double the time of a considerable
Moment amongst the living.
It was deafening.