the beekeeper.

i have a question, but i can only spit fire.

i'm not a doctor,
but I know why my health is deteriorating.
i wasn't built quite right.
God forged me from a burning fire,
and i have never had the time to cool.
i heard Him whisper to Himself softly:
"temper it. just temper it."
but i am intemperate.
it was the way i came out of the furnace.
i, myself, am an act of sacrilege, that God had accidently created.
it was by leaving me in the burning pool for too long that i was misshapen.
pools of red hot metal bubbled up where they didn't belong.
my own internal infrastructure is construed into something horrifying and faulty.
this makes me wonder.
did He intend,
no,
did he envisage this future for me?
the wrong, the unjust?

it was because of this flaw in my creation
that i am decaying.
there is nothing constructive to say about fire for blood,
or novocaine seeping through my heart,
or caffeine leaking between my teeth.
it's an eternal paradox:
the fight between sleep and awake.
most of the songs, poems, stories that flow from my mouth are incoherent.
does anyone understand what this cursed ring is saying?
i don't believe they can hear me through the smoke.

the older i grow,
the hotter the liquid fire burns in my veins.
i frequently wonder,
always caught in an introspective trap,
if surrendering to the flow of fate,
rendering myself useless and complacent to how things are,
would dowse the burning.
if fate is a river like it seems to be in many stories,
could it be so gloriously profuse to put out the flames
until there is nothing left but cold, hardened metal?
it is imperative that i know.
even if it is not a proper solution,
if it could simply behave as a placebo
and trick my brain into thinking that i am not burning from the inside out,
i would be alright.
sometimes believing a lie is beneficial.

in retrospect, i have always tried to calm my tongue
and accept that fact that i am not as i should be,
but as i take in more oxygen,
as my need to breathe continues,
one of Nature's most perplexing phenomenons occurs.
oxygen feeds fire, and i cannot stop it.
"temper it. just temper it."
you can't temper the fire without proper materials.
stomp it out.
breathe a little less, champ.
it's not that easy.
it's more diligent to devour everything i am than i could ever be.

Lord, hear the plea of a burning man.
is this simply the way the wind must blow,
or was it Your fault in my design that created these emotions?
apparition, guide me.