metaphor.
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I am not the memory
of a hard mother's voice
staccatod like gunfire
of, " Why don't you?"
" Why can't you?"
I am the desire
to flow
clear
like a silver river
floating free
This magical bee-
doesn't sting
it is soothing, pacific
and lights upon my eyes
with fuzzy feet
turning my tears to honey
thus sweetening
my bitter pain.
He brings other
bees,
"I feel the beat of my own words as they tumble
A stutter, a jump in the waves of age that crash
Down, encircling my head, shooting an emotional gun
A bang in bed, so hard it breaks.
