Constantly aware
of my
input
and output,
I am the most inefficient
worker bee.
Fur wet with honey,
I cling to the insides of
hives and lose
my wings,
unable to peel them back
away from one another.
A fortress much more a home
than a homicide,
rose thorns are hardly my sting,
so I weave in and out
of their buds and barbed wire.
I am not supposed to feel
a thing.
I die for my cause.
I am what I make.
I forage in the afternoon,
and then free my sting
from my skin
decidedly.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Constantly aware
of my
input
and output,
I am the most inefficient
worker bee.
Fur wet with honey,
I cling to the insides of
hives and lose
my wings,
unable to peel them back
away from one another.
A fortress much more a home
than a homicide,
rose thorns are hardly my sting,
so I weave in and out
of their buds and barbed wire.
I am not supposed to feel
a thing.
I die for my cause.
I am what I make.
I forage in the afternoon,
and then free my sting
from my skin
decidedly.
