Honeycombed Memory

my Memory exists as a beehive, the buzz Eating away at the mundane thoughts. i seldom remember anything, my memory storing everything useless but nothing of Love or Joy or the Butterflies i get when pretty Girls lull my name with a sugary song. rather, my Memory stores that of third grade multiplication charts. my mind runs around a game of tag played when i was no taller than the tree stump we used as base. i remember a red flushed face when i said the wrong thing, and the tears of Death that never stopped to sleep. the worker bees that buzz in the honeycombs of my brain have stopped craving sweet nectar, instead settling for bitter pollen that is given by the flowers of my Pain. i no longer search for Good. the Bad fills my stomach and eats my Empty. this is convenient as the Bad is never in short supply. the surface of my Youth is splintered by the onslaught of bottomless shrieks from my friends. the cracks resemble their tear ridden faces, always crying out to a God they have stopped believing in, praying that Death will swarm their honeycombed heads and devour even the vile Pollen left by the bees. But more often than not, the Pollen is too rotten to eat And it is left behind, forcing what is left to rot as well