That blood in the water

is not from a body

but rose up naturally rusty

from the moment this world began.

By it, social flowers try to sing,

and make the world go round,

but they rot at root in water

that drinks from them instead.

Their songs are cut short,

and they often loose the mind to speak,

but little bumblebees fly on unaware,

with their pollen-laden knees.

Unfortunately, too many fall short of flowers,

as the only way to them

is across the water,

whose main job is to compost them.

Too soon the puddle absorbs them,

prematurely conscripting them

to join the earth before they can

make it to the other side.

In this little world

of muddy puddles and improperly timed recycling,

the messages in pollen are often lost,

and float away unretrievably.

One thing I find sadder

than undelivered messages,

flowers that can't sing,

and blamelessly useless bees:

The fact that this chaotic mess

is actually a metaphor,

and what it means for me and my brain

is not necessarily a good thing.

This poem is about: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741