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Hello there

insect buzzing through the air

why don't you come & sit in my snare...

                                  ...I mean chair            

I have six legs, see?

I'm just like you

oh, these?  my arms?

why yes, there's two

so come, little one

dawn has begun

take refuge from the sun

in this hammock I've spun

there, isn't that nice?

what?  your legs?

you said they won't move?

there, there my winged friend

I know just what to do!

Beware of insects with arms.
Mitch Prax Jun 24
The love bug
is not kept in a jar
but left to roam from afar.
The love bug
must be set free
to see if it was meant to be.
jlf Mar 20
half asleep i carefully place
lemon slices on top of all the walls and sprinkle
tea tree oil around the door
i read it wards off
or cockroaches

my roommate complains of a familiar smell
and we discuss the insurgence of nostalgia
against the monarchy of the endless march of time

the way the what could have been gilts
the grass we walk through with guilt
towards happiness

i’m singing “off with the heads
of the things i can’t forget”
tiny feet in the passage whisper

“no one has crossed a meadow
& emerged with clean feet”

i remember cursing dew as a child
for dirtying my shoes as i walked to the car
and slowing me at the start
of races i was never going to win

out in the corridor i encounter the king who
doesn’t move as i raise my foot
only laughs and says

“a cockroach can survive a week
without its head
and a memory much longer”
I’ve been,
Under the dirt,
Upon my abdomen.
For the tree,
That I will hang from
And be set free.

This skin I wear
Encases me.
When I’ve moulted.
I will be free.
I will wiggle off the confounds
Of bone and flesh
Of space and time
And of birth and death.

I was once
A nymph.
Living on the roots,
Of the tree above me.
I was so small and hungry then,
But I have eaten enough now.
It is time to harden,
This old soft skin.

I’m passing through,
This knot,
In the infinite,
Line of life.
Aligning myself with the inner body.
Squirming out of this old biology.
Going beyond our senses,
And beyond our imaginations.

That inner beauty is shining through,
Becoming the apparatus that moves you.
Listen to the rhythm of your beating wings,
In tune to when the mother sings.
Break this skin,
In the making.

Am I,
An island encased in a bag of skin?
Or am I,
The entirety of the ocean?
Am I,
An isolated ray of sunshine?
Or am I,
The source of the sun?
Am I,
An insignificant speck on a spinning ball?
Or am I,
Something a whole lot more?

I am, I am.
I am all that I am.

Tricked yourself long ago,
The joke of the speck
Stuck to a sphere,
Spinning out to nowhere.
This body is an egg,
That encapsulates me,
Soon it will hatch,
And set me free.

We are all nymphs,
Seventeen in the making.
Come and crawl with me,
Get down on your abdomen.
We are all going to climb the tree,
And disappear into seventeen again.
Remaking an old poem of mine.
George Krokos Jan 29
No one around town likes a fly
and there's no need to question why.
It spreads germs all over the place
which in turn cause so much disgrace.

With living habits that aren't sound
it seems no one wants it around.
Cleanliness for it is absurd
because its food can be a ****.

When it lands on a person's skin
all their patience quickly wears thin.
They will try to brush it away
and doing so have a good day.

It's not for nothing that we hear
people saying things which are dear
like 'there are no flies on one's back'
meaning that person is not slack.

Woe to that insect called the fly
'cause on its demise none will cry.
Creatures like it on the food chain
are best ignored for they bring pain.

Though some creatures do feed on it
they've evolved stomachs that are fit.
They alone know what to expect
but which other forms will reject.
Written in 2019
Nigdaw Jan 20
I sit contemplating it
a speck on a desert of floor
tracing an unfathomable journey
past unseen obstacles

direction seems lost
then suddenly
I become the target

I try to understand scale
if it were a person
I would be bigger than
a jumbo jet

this mountain rises and moves
to carry on existence
among the clouds
carefully avoiding
a crushing blow

in my eyes how is that
spec of life
more important than mine
Contemplating an insect on the toilet floor.
Wendy Star Dec 2019
Wings flowing back and forth
Keeping little butterfly up
Wind challenging the little insect
Strong breezes tumbling

To the north
The little butterfly must go
The road not easy nor perfect
No time for bumbling

The bees may rumble and bumble
But not little butterfly
Little butterfly is silent and graceful
Now which of the two survives?
Sometimes I feel like a bee being loud and obnoxious. Other times I feel as if I am the butterfly keeping to myself; floating through life quietly. There is a time and place for both. If you are a bee at the wrong time you pay the consequences. If you are a butterfly at the wrong time you miss out on certain opportunities in life.
Scarlett Nov 2019
I empathize for the bugs of damnation
spiders, ants & roaches as frantic as I
flinching away from the gangly limbs of civilization
a world of fleshy foul things perched high.
Spray,   squash,  slap,   scorn,
how we scamper from the polished hand of misery
hath you no mercy for the unwillingly born?
hath you a reason to cause such injury?
perhaps I am like the cockroach who weaves between the shadows, perhaps I've romanticized insect-like alienation
Nigdaw Nov 2019
Bright white, blinding,
lost in a sea of light.
Radar no longer functioning,
then suddenly intense, murderous heat
scorching legs and wings.

Trying to navigate a way out
they watch from the bed,
lost in its own Bermuda Triangle.

He is fascinated - how stupid
a creature can be to **** itself
on a light bulb.

She, understanding the distraction
of the light, sheds a tear
for how love hurts
and destroys you in the end.
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