(By the way, this is slam poetry, so read it as such)
I want this to be a great piece.
You are the bumblebee in my garden. Stinging, but
No. No, I want this to be THE great piece. Once I’m done, I want there to a long silence in awe, then clapping. Not polite clapping. Not mandatory clapping. Clapping in admiration. A standing ovation. A taste of true happiness. Perfect word choice, perfect pace, you’ll say. I want this to be the base of all modern writing.
The bee’s sweet honey cannot compare to your
Let’s be realistic. This isn’t the great piece. I’m not even sure if this is a good piece. I’m never going to make a piece like that. And even if I was, it’s probably going to be in one of those crumpled balls of looseleaf that I so carelessly discard. But maybe it’s better that way. What if I had that moment of pure ecstasy? It would be the climax of my life. Everything after that would be a falling action, just a fraction of what I was. This piece would haunt me and taunt me and laugh in the face of any other writing.
I’ve changed my mind. A perfect piece would be awful. I want this to be the worst piece I’ve ever written.
You are better than the wasp in nearly every way.
A wasp may bite several times, but your teeth can rip through flesh endlessly.
You could and do make your way through old newspaper in double the time of an insect.
Your bright clothing always tells me when you’re near, so as to prepare.
And your friends outnumber the hives of larval defects.
I’d never dare venture your private lair.
I must say that we make quite a pair.