Everything is Mine

there is a problem
here.
too much to hold,
and hardly enough
to go around.
and i have been told,
by them
that keep me warm,
to hush the sound,
buzz of a distant
swarm.
but eking
out a measly honey jar,
my stings and
spines pierce
everything, and mar
the forms of them that
i’m bound to scar,
here in my car,
here in this lonesome car.
while outside,
birds sing and
fling themselves
through the air,
tumbling on pollen swells.
but i cannot sit
still for the rumbling,
more than i can bear,
oh funny
thing.