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Nigdaw Jul 2019
2am
listening to the song of the gnat
as I sit having a crap
book in hand
I always read here
since I had small children
the only place I got any peace

the song stops
I can feel the itch
tiny legs massaging skin
looking for a way in

more people killed than are alive today

quite a reputation for one so small
we always called them gnats
never mosquitos
the gnat sounded more diminutive
less of a threat
but as it turns out
they are connected through
their Latin name, Culicidae  

so I wonder about malaria
how it's coming back to our shores
as I finish the paperwork
and hear the song resume
disturbing it's evening meal
The mosquito has killed more people than are alive today.
Nigdaw Jul 2019
Bee
Stripey, furry, pollen coated
Buzzing summer stillness into life,
Journey of fertility from stamen to
Stamen, pollination, by-product of travail.
Sweet honey stored in citadel honeycomb
Shaped perfectly, Fibonacci sequence,
Queen factory birthing, supplying an army
Compulsory conscription, signed up for life
Common mind, common goal, calculating
Journeys to fertile meadows, returning
Debriefing to communicate flight path,
Destination situation report, until
One day dispatch signals failure
The hive is silenced, the computer
Turned off.
Mystic Ink Plus Jun 2019
I remember
Under the sublime light
Moves of
The romantic mosquito

Welcome refused
Repeller on
Romance dead
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Buzzing
Arisa Mar 2019
Seven spotted ladybird,
Dancing in my mind.

Its shade a deep burgundy,
with a slight shine that sparkled
under the soft rays of the sun.

It wobbled its way across the hood of car.
And I poked it gently,
Making it clumsily fall on its back in the driveway.

I cupped the tiny thing in my hands,
And eventually, it flew away.
A poem about my experience with a ladybird  during my student exchange to New Zealand. A beautiful country.
Arisa Mar 2019
An insect.
That crawls upon my body, except I can't quickly swat it away
Without causing attention to myself
and everyone noticing that my
white ******* are pulled
all the way down
to my ankles.

My lips are dry so I bite them.
Knuckles whitening while I hold onto the grip-strap
And I hear his heavy breathing against my neck.
I look at the tunnels, quickly passing by.
'Maybe this will end fast too?'

Naive of me to think so.

Sliding into my flower
Like a toxic, little aphid.
Stuck on my sticky leaves
As petals are parted and

I pour out of the open doors in Shinjuku station,
And run out, wiping a tear on my sleeve.
I tug up my decency
While I run to the ticket booth.
Angry foreigner was yelling at the old man who sits within.
The clock above strikes eight.
I decide that it's not worth it.
I won't tell anyone.
It doesn't matter.
Could be worse.
It's okay.
I'm okay.







I wasn't okay.
I recall a time where I was molested by a pervert in the trains of Tokyo when I was in middle school.
IncholPoem Jan 2019
A  flying  insect
without   control
on  itself
touched   the  stomata.


A female spider's
hunting   net
was   covering  
the  empty  area
of    stomata.


It   did  bind
and  ****   that
insect.


But  that  insect
had  egg  to  fertilise
in  its body.
Pax Nov 2018
you lure me like
a mosquito
craving for your
blood
starving
for your
love.
But then
like any other
insects
you fear
Me.
R J Coman Oct 2018
I once read a story about an ant
who set his mind to move a mountain.
An insect, a millimeter from jaw to legtip,
laboring against a mass of stone and
soil quadrillions of times his size.
But he worked
and worked
and worked
moving the bedrock one dram at a time,
year after year, season after season,
each trip melding into the next in an
endless march of mindless labor, until
where the mountain once stood,
a peaceful valley sank down. All because
of the labor of one very determined insect.

At the end of the fable, the writer tells us
never to give up, for what we choose
to work and persevere towards
will surely happen if we truly try.
As I read the story, I knew he was right.
Never give up.
Even if it takes a quadrillion trips,
1,000,000,000,000,000 trials,
before the mountain bows to you.
Even if your small, insectoid mind
cracks like a candy-cane under a sandbag,
even if you collapse and die after 6 decades
of exhaustion, millions more left to go.
Never give up.
Even if your task is impossible, and it
destroys your life, everything you love,
everything that makes your little ant-soul tick.
Never give up.
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
Feast your eyes upon all the
                                       mangled
                                                twitching
                                                            bodi­es

trapped in the grills of fat and
                                                        brown
                                                              pa­ckage
                                                           ­         trucks

so far away from the idyllic blades of
                                                                ­ green
                                                                ­        and
                                                                ­           sun

crossing ***-hole asphalted rivers where
                                                               alligators
                                                                ­        speed
                                                                ­            amuck

We all get hurt crossing seemingly
                                                       empty
                                                           perilous
                                                        ­           streets

and end up in some wolf-dressed-as-sheep
                                                                ­    machine's
                                                                ­               sharp
                                                                ­                     teeth

are we different from the insects
                                                 roaming
                                                              on­
                                                            inst­inct?

If only you could wiggle your body more to the side
but the alligator never slows and the wind is a bonafide
                                           bully.                                              
At least I can see whats ahead, might as well enjoy the ride.
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
From the thick green canopy
The rain oh how it wept
d                        d          d
r            d                        r
i             r           r
p            i                         i
              p          i
                          p            p
Creating a sad mucky galaxy
Where the mosquitoes brood is kept
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