You weren't the butterflies in my stomach —no, you were the ache in my chest. You were the lust in my eyes and the longing in my bones. And there's nothing I can do to shake the stinging feeling of wasps one my skin, in the places you should be.
Check out the other poems in the "Butterflies" series! This poem was written in 2016.
Petals scatter with sweet honey from the hexagonal sun And drip their nectar unto the heiress’s staff’s bun Her lips shine with the yellow blood of her little wasp enemies Disguised with a soft and young smile that’s hidden breathlessly The young ruler’s snow hair dissolves into sweet sprinkles of canary And her golden eyes shall unleash a sting into whoever she shall marry
A poem I started yesterday and finished today. Based on this artwork I saw on DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/thegraystray/art/Inktober-2017-Queen-Bee-711131419. I got her permission to do this poem. Please check out her art, it's freaking awesome!
At the precipice of sunrise I might aspire to take a stroll a bipedal tour of the neighborhood catching the scent of recently cut grass feeling the dew on the leaves low hanging trees and observe the moisture drawing earthworms from their shelter easy pickings for the ravens whom may aspire to be eagles. Squirrels approach with a boldness expecting nourishment from my person and leave disappointed as they came. The sun emblazons the horizon with a will to command the chorus of birds At this moment I realize our reservations and selfish preservation have become. As I smile and throw my arms out wide a wasp lands and stings the inside of my joint and I remember how much of an ******* everything is and go back inside.