Honey

My first poem is how my grandmother showed me that no matter what battles come my way I can make something beautiful out of it. This is how you can turn negatives and make them art and give back.

Honey

I opened my mouth as she fed me her happiness filled honey.

She fed me her happiness on a wooden spoon.

Warm, sweet, gooey, golden honey.

The sweetest honey I ever had drip from my lips and tongue.

(onto my neck and body...rolling down)

She had a secret ingredient to such a sweet, desirable, addictive taste.

She took negatives and bottled them in.

She held them against her chest like a young child.

She nurtured her hostility back to health.

She let the negatives toss and turn inside of her mind and inside her heart.

She poured the fresh viscous gold honey onto broken souls.

The honey she nourished me with has answered the questions I have had since she has left.

She now watches from the universes above me.

I must create my own honey and feed it to others. (others in need of honey)

I will put my honey on your lips and watch in drip down your chin.

I will feed you until satisfaction, until you are full of honey.

She created art in alcoholism.

I can create beauty in hatred.

Open your mouth wide and I will give you honey.

(the honey this world is so deprived of)