My shitty poetry diary

Flies

I hear the bees buzzing around me,

It's all pitch black, my eyes are closed.

I can feel the damp leaves around me,

under me,

touching my bare body.

I can smell the blooming daisies,

and their sweet scent of peace.

A wave of luxury brushes over my skin, as does the breeze.

I can feel, I can smell, I can hear...

But I can't see.

open your eyes.

No.

Why

What if I open my eyes and it's all not there,

what if the daisies aren't real, the bees are gone, and the leaves are old and rusting.

Just open your eyes.

Okay.

The wave of luxury quickly washes off my delicate skin as I breach my eyelids,

revealing a smokey auburn sky.

I go to move my head,

Thorns.

Thorns wrapped around my neck, slowly engulfing my bare body into the muck. They weren't leaves

My mouth hangs agape as I breathe shallowly, not to move, not to let the thorns win.

The buzzing, oh the buzzing is still there. Relief.

Panic. I feel panic as the buzzing gets closer to my ears, to my open mouth.

The buzzing of putrid flies, and their nasty persona.

They take advantage of my vulnerable state, they crawl over my skin, where the vines haven't completely taken over.

They creep their way up my neck and into my open mouth.

Into my listening ears.

I feel them in my lungs now, chanting a rhythmic, disgusting tune.

The mildew of the rotting earth makes it's way to my senses.

I breath it in,

I feel it.

Breathing is getting harder, the thorns are getting more persistent, more demanding.

The flies are spewing acid through my lungs, I can feel them in my veins at this point.

Bulging through my arteries, to my heart.

My circulatory system is no longer mine.

My anatomy doesn't belong to me anymore.

I haven't closed my eyes yet, but the corners are getting dark.

I can't feel my skin anymore.

Just tiny legs crawling on me.

I can't smell that putrid scent, I can't breath.

What the hell is this? (Clearing my drafts)