White Noise

Rising sick
a tide of anxious bees
pollinating worry inside me
like a field of roses surrounding the tower
a buzzing
reaching
for the bottom of my tongue
like it will not let me make words
only a scream
that’s more like an echoing to its drone

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Fiction, On Depression, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.