When the honey itself

I have longed for my first attempt at feminine art to be as polished,

I declined my seasoned work as I had hoped for deep red lips and sparkling eyes that glisten with goddess like captivity

Instead I find the encapsulated beauty of the goddess-sea inside of a moon-tide I cannot control, the caprice feeling of being swung around by a giant creature with no control, no sense of gravity

It taunts my soul inside with a thousand thick, razor sharp blades.

Inside of my youth, I painted my face, I stuffed my bra and I stuffed my head with fluffy, vain eyes that only saw the ripe, red, tattered flesh of female character.

Outside, in the reduced darkness of my mind, the affection of such an intimate moment is lost,

I grabbed the flesh that was not allowed to me, and I attributed it to my deeply troubled, masculine voice

Yet here I stand in linens and robes that shout female drive.

When the honey itself warns of severity

As Shakespeare quotes: "The sweetest honey / Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, / And in the taste confounds the appetite"

How can I compete with the essence of freedom in a taste

How can I realize my feelings of fear have locked my body into a state of Frankenstein madness?

My mind bends to the side of masculine desire

My

Body tilts and twills and twirled like a estranged ballerina dancing to The Dying Swan without perishing

Being beaten like a red apple in the height of summer, my shape has twisted

Honeyed words of my beauty has changed my flesh into wine

A certain color that ripped my heart into twine,

But, you must have raised me from the bottom of the heap of despair, the plaintive earth, to fill the skies with your moonlit eyes

Oh dear goddess that had left me

Your name has choked my mouth

I am in sorrow for your grief

I am

Stuck in Sorrow for the second batch of honey that is loathsome in its place

I fear God as He had told me to,

the whole volume of our history screeching with our halved hearts of gratitude and pain

When I first saw the picture of my feminine rage

It was softer the second time, muted

The androgyny of the scars, of which were deepened by you,

Was the honey so loathsome that you turned it into dust?

Now you pick up the dust to turn it into ripe melon

Where was the magic the first time?

Was the illusion just a coincidence, a mixture of feeling terror of a possibly meaningless life

All around us, we find the honey too strong, too sweet

When the honey itself screams mortal death, mortal sin

Comes the second round of grief and glory

For we all sink into the coil that grips us, for we are all men

Who am I, what am I, why does feeling like a terrified little ant give us the euphoria of being alive?