The Writer and the Bee

One day the writer just sat in wonder,
and let his thoughts wander,
a time to ponder,
he brainstorms, neural clouds darken
and thunder,
waiting for the torrent of words to flow,
for the roots of knowledge to flourish and grow,
for ink to reap and sow,
but when the heavens do not cry,
his eyes do,
the water that stains paper,
are manifestations of his frustration,
of thoughts he is unable to express,
to be acknowledged,
to achieve success.

 Then came a bee,
humming a song ever so vibrantly,
drawn to the young man’s tears,
it hovers around his ears,
whispering,
“Do you not write for yourself,
for your peace and not wealth,
for your own mind’s health,
young writer?
Why then do you crave,
this success and this fame,
and worldly acclaim for your words,
from men that care not for the delicacy of the pen,
favoring instead the brutishness of the swords?”

 The writer appreciates the bee’s concern,
and gives his reply in kind,
“My yellow and black friend,
I dare not pretend,
to ignore my family at home,
how then am I to tend,
to the mouths of my children whose wants never end?
And their sickly mother, on me they all depend.
Would the queen of your hive not be quick to rage,
if you were to unable to acquire nectar?
How then would you feed the innocent larvae,
that need honey to eat and to grow and to run and to play?
No actor can continue to profit nothing from the stage,
likewise no writer can be fruitless from the seeds of his page.”

 Laughing as it circles his head,
the bee would have the last word, and said,
“Oh you must have been sitting too long under the Sun,
for you to say that our children need to run,
when instead we fly!”
And off it went,
leaving the writer with a drum beat chest,
a hammering that made him clutch his breast,
painful jealousy,
of a creature allowed to behave so freely,
that it cared not for his reply,
nor did it bid him goodbye,
and the writer’s tears appeared again like morning dew,
because he had forgotten the time when the bee’s words were true.