Sting, a poem

Lots of metaphors here need to be strengthened. If you've been following my blog, you know a lot of this is my writing practice, a place to think and create. Here's a little poem I played with for about fifteen minutes. Not nearly enough time to make something great, but I'm keeping up with my goal of writing once a day. Have comments for strengthening the metaphors and clarifying the image? Share if you wish. But be kind. It's a lot easier to write about a random thought or insight in fifteen minutes than it is to construct a poem! This will be something I'd like to return to later and revise.

Sharp and surprising, that stinger.

The bee is gone before the pain sets in.

Rubbing my hand, there’s nothing to see

But a red mark and inflamed skin.

Where did it come from?

The villain is gone now, not a scent in the air.

I wonder about pain. I wonder about beauty.

I wonder about flowers and bees and perfect harmony.

There is beauty all around.

Look at that butterfly by the flower.

There is pain all around.

Look at the bruise on my hand.

Memories are like this.

A shock to the system from out of the blue.

One moment a smile. One memory a tear.

Dangerous hives bring sweet honey.

Life will bring you pleasure and pain.

There is no day without night, no spring without rain.

And joy can bring a powerful sting.

Even the most beautiful of days have bruises.