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
Copyright © Jordan Hoffman | Year Posted 2020
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