No rhymes. No rhythm. Just feeling.

I don’t see it anymore, you know. The comfort of your nearness is gone. The hope that kills was the one sustaining me. But somehow, I learned to live without air. It was a painful and agonizing death but I resurrected. And now I’m standing, back on top.

I smile but I’m not happy. The view from up here is the most lonesome feeling. I’m where everyone wants to be, because they thought being here means you could fly. Stupid creatures. How can a person without wings fly? Even bees have wings, no matter how unproportionate those are to their huge bodies.

I dare you to assume. I bet all your guesses are wrong.

What makes a person tick? Check their watch. How is time spent and with whom? But people are liars and great actors. They do this and say otherwise. So push them. And if they have a huge amount of patience in their system, push them some more. Then stand by their room, watch them when they think they’re alone. They may succeed in fooling you when you’re face to face, being great actors and all. But observe them when they think you aren’t looking. That’s when the tick to the tock explodes like kaboom.

So then the wingless bee went kaboom. It was a black and yellow catastrophe. The stinging was too much. It was just too much.

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