Up to the trees I go,
Further north where fresh water flows.
Travel preparations with my heart aching,
Home is where I’m free,
Left alone just to be.
Not in this gloomy place,
Not within this heat wave.
Like a pioneer,
I pack my bags,
Leaving behind the places I know,
In search of the places,
Where I’ll grow.

I try to speak, and my tongue tries to run,
and tends to trip when strong words come.

The rhythm and pace of his steps taste
like sweet songs that almost land with grace—
into your ears. But hopefully, you hear
the plopping of boots that my tongue tied loose.

Even when he trips and falls,
know that his words still risk it all.

When his dance becomes daring,
and his stutter turns to swearing,
his beat becomes apparent—

because no words, and no walk,
no pucker nor path
could portray the way my tongue trips up
taking to you at last.

Poets are glowsticks,
snapped,
then they fluoresce.

Liquid light.
Blood of the lightning bug,
squashed and smeared.
Nearly extinct.

Bleed and glow.

The cuts of forever promised,
instead,
they siphoned.

Distilled into purple-red neon,
spelling out:

read me.
know I’ve lost.