Insects and Artforms

Insects whisper silently in my backyard grass.
The small blades crease silently due to the pressure.
They whisper their small funeral songs. Their tiny
voices encircle a human’s ears spewing sorrow

With our eyes we see the world; our gaze is so intense.
The world looks like a small pop-up book we’re given by
alternative styles and broken art forms from arrogant artists.
Abstraction of Property, Abstraction of Property,
You’re Picasso face might just degrade into something more Monet.
Originality is a concept, a memory, and a simplistic injustice.

With our mouths we spew things we never mean.
From confidence to lies, we say them all until our blood thickens.
Anger  floods our arthritic pathways from blood-pumper to brain.
Arteries tangle in grand designs to the beat of our heart.
Our very existence is a mere biological art form
Blood is blocked, Oxygen is decreased, Comatose is an art form, right?

These little bugs sing their songs from day to night.
They watch the human’s tears create rivers between them.
Our lonely eyes salivate to the thoughts of manipulation.
From Comatose to Consciousness, we crush bugs for a reason.
We’re incapable of handling another’s grief.