When Bees Make More Than Honey

As far back as I can remember. They were always present. Made themselves right at home. In the chambers of my heart. They were frugal, ambitious and built fantastic cities. Were more or less- golden souled. but never would they let anybody get to close. Every time my heartbeat, it released a dollop of honey. Made people dance, shine and smile. During these times. I'd always pointed to my chest. Gave all the credit to the hive. Every once in a while, a stinger would wiggle free. Take some poor innocent soul to task. Left them bleeding in the broken glass... of an unsuspecting eve. When this occurred, I took all the blame. Made many- many enemies. Word spread, "stay clear of his heart." There're stingers hidden deep within the sweet. All the good honey was soon forgotten. Beneath one little stinger of half rotten. One day I decided that all the bees had to go. I cut their pulsing metropolis from my poisoned being. Tossed it into the black-eyed sea. Along with their queen who drifted away. On a raft made from my heart bones. To this day, a few drones still buzz the corner of the soul... Asking me why it had to be. Forever leaving me with bloated heart and a quarter mile of crow's feet. 9/22/16