Honey Don’t Bee

Damaged clocks without hands,
Likes bees minus the barb’s sting,
Broken people staying silent because: ‘they said.’
Dementia will take you away, give back old forgotten things.

Progression of love to hate,
Once you see I refuse to play,
Cracked wooden spaces polished in pieces,
The ones who need me most refuse to come on and stay.

Underestimate my pressure diamond,
Cooking in my boiled up pot and plans,
Wash the killing floors with bleach and warm spit,
If I twist you off your rusted caps, ‘Daddy am I now a man?’

Bent prayers without a destination,
Like preachers on the make and take,
Sins are only what we deem to be dirty parties,
Hate me I breathe, love me and I might just go and break.
– Thomas Spychalski

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