HoneyComb

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee.

Her laughter, a collaboration among 

the muses and Mother Nature, a melody of its own.

Do not call her a harlot or she will turn into a wasp 

turning your words into a stinger that she'll use against you. 

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee.

Her eyes will do the talking if you let them.

Do not look into her eyes unless you are able to prepare 

for what they might say.

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee.

This page and these journals are all her hives,

an expansion of a sort of home.

These Strokes upon the page, 

these words within this message, 

serve as a warning when you disrupt her peace. 

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee, but only if you prompt her.

“Sometimes I just want to be left be”

“I've tried being your queen, 

but you have ignored my rules by reign. 

I've stopped being sweet now you must accept the bitter. “

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee.

“Being the you, your younger self ‘could have wanted’

 without faults, little flaws, 

trying to keep up the charade burns me out.”

But you can't have bitter without the sweet 

Sweeter than honey.

She stings worse than a bee.

How does one understand sweets without 

being introduced to bitter?

She stings worse than a bee.

 bees only sting to protect. 

Sweeter than honey cuz she's met the bitter taste of lemon.

WishingWell

She wished.

No, I wished.

She wished hard.

I wished hard on a star that there was no telling 

if it could actually hear me from where I was.

She wished despite being sure whether or 

not she could be heard, not being sure whether 

or not she was heard was normal enough for her 

to proceed without overthinking or worrying too much. 

I wished. Sometimes I would recite the wish like a prayer. 

Other times I wouldn’t know what to wish for & 

just let one fall off the tip of my tongue much

 like one does when blowing out birthday candles.

She wished so hard, crossed her fingers, 

closed her eyes so tight with all the superstition 

bullshit she did not believe in & made her wish.

I wished & did not believe it, the wish, 

the falsehood that this ball of fire would answer any wish of mine,

 that it would hear anything I had to say. I was used to not being heard. 

She wished, but though she 

would deny it she cried a little afterward.

I wished, the dust within my eyelids, 

disturbed by me digging up old childish dreams,

 if they could be attended to, then maybe I would 

indulge just enough to give in, 

to give them stars some real adult pain.

She wept. Not because she was sad, 

but because her pockets were empty & 

she wished to make an accompanying wish, 

one that the molecules of salt within those

tears could speak for themselves.

I wished hard & like a flash of light, 

I saw shooting stars, one after the other after 

hearing my wish stars decided to go on either strick 

or put in their letters of resignation, leaving in a single file line.

She wished.

I wished, & later felt funny indulging in such a 

child-like pass time. This delusion of wishing is 

no different than the illusion of dreaming. 

How can one dream without going to bed, going to sleep? 

How does one make a wish without a wish to make of that wish or 

a wish taker to take such a wish?

She stumbles for words to brush off her judgment.

The whys flood her mind like insulin in a diabetic, 

a soldier into a war, like words looking for a writer, 

all something, someone, looking for something, 

some act of being a hero.

I wished. Wished with a lackluster sense of humor, 

because I am an adult & these are child affairs. 

I hope those moments will pass & 

the wish granted will have been present.

She wished. Wished hard. 

Looking back it looks like it feels so long ago, 

but it was only moments behind the present.

I wished cause I used to be her or here

She wished.

Star Constellations

Looking above it’s hard to see the stars as anything other than a family; A family I can both relate to & not all at the same time.

I used to look up at the stars as a form of declaration, a sign of certainty, a ‘must be’ in a world full of so many ‘let the chips fall where they may’ Doing so used to give me some sort of comfort. 

The stars, the constellations, groups of families, as if being extended values of themselves, different & imperfect.

I used to look up at the stars as if they resembled my possibility of being. If they did so will I. So I dreamed of a time in which I would ascend into the sky, becoming a star & a little girl like I used to be would point me out naming me as her star.

I remember when I was little I had picked out a star out of all the rest as an articulation of how I felt. I’d watch as the shine of the star fluctuated, this simple fact, this demonstration put more into words than I even knew how to at the moment.

She’d give me a name & she would admire me. She’d see me separately from all the rest, see me as a face when everyone else would just see a burning ball of fire.

It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I separated prayer from wishing, looking at it as wishing had matured into prayer, just as I had matured from girl -- girlhood into woman -- womanhood.

La Luna (uncut)

 She,

the moon,

performs

beautiful &

radiant,

she shines on stage,

stars 

are her spotlights. 

 

 

 

a Letter to Her Own pt2

Adulting is an over-advertised phenomenon. Trust me, the ‘real world’ isn’t such a fun place when you’re in it. Those decisions they say you can make on your own come with their own consequences, ones that you’ll have to deal with later. No one's told you that. There are still things that you cannot do. Adult life has its own bounds such as responsibilities & expectations etc., etc. Don't forget how to be a kid. Try to understand while it is good to have your head in the clouds sometimes, it is also good to look down & touch grass every so often. Don’t be in such a rush to become an adult. Do you remember Pinocchio’s story? Remember how he couldn’t wait to become a real boy? But here’s the thing; it wasn’t until he learned how to be a real boy and learned the virtues of a good person that he got his wish. All that to say, you’re in such a rush to be a real grown-up, but you don’t know the virtues of being one and to get your wish you must not only master being who you are now, but you have to understand how to let those virtues become yours. You’re still a little one. You’re just not as little as you were.