5: 28 In The Morning

ideas keep rushing like some leaves blown by the wind,
this is different, i must agree, there is no choice,

there is this bee that keeps on hovering on top of me and
then suddenly stops to settle on my hair
and stings my head

and here, here, it must have mistaken me as a flower
it stops asking for some nectar to sip

i said, i don't have any for i am a man, not this flower in your mind
and hey, look at this bee, it stings me, and i am swollen, and then it says,

o my, indeed, you're human
i am sorry.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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