It's so sweet,

soaked in honey,

a little deathly.

Soft and creamy.

Cringeworthy.

Such a treat,

no, honestly.

Not being funny.

Its honey's so runny.

Slimy.

Glazed glucose,

poisoning the heart

with a guilty kind of sickness.

Teeth sink into its surface,

while it's smothered by the tongue.

Then mechanical digestion takes place,

and shades of pink flood the face.

That gross creature commits gluttony,

fingertips silky wet with a bear's honey.

They warn the children of nosebleeds that never happen.

And now they're forcing bees into labour for more,

consumerism.

Capitalism.

But they just can't get enough,

so they take whole handfuls to stuff

themselves with so monstrously,

why don't they take their self-worth seriously?

Things I'll never know.

Drowning their souls in artificiality.

Such animality.

Diabetes in a bowl,

needles, leaves and a hole

that expands

to swallow them whole,

takes them to wastelands

where they'll exist,

wasted and repulsive.

Yet they still remain impulsive.

So repulsive.

So impulsive.

Still.

Sickly.

Sticky like a disease.

But they'll never ask for help, so please,

don't bother anymore.

They're lost at their core.

∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎∞︎︎

ద ద 𖦊 ꪉ 𐀔 𐃸 ద 𖦊 ʊ

༒ ༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ᜊ ༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

༒ ༒ ༒ . . ༒

ద ༒

༒ . ༒

༒ . . ᰔ

༒

༒