fruit tree

i.
 
each word you spit  
instead of convey  
sits heavy as a grave  
on your shoulders  
 
we can’t carry the whole world  
in our arms, especially  
across barbwire beliefs  
and minefields of thought  
whispering ‘enemy’  
 
it’s time for a proper burial  
if we can reach the river  
and lay it all down  
without giving in
and killing one another first  
 
ii.
 
i once wanted to build a poem  
resembling a tree house  
made of light and truth  
so that anytime it catches wind  
of anything dishonest  
I could transform it  
into a peaceful stanza instead  
 
I ached  
dragging metaphors and similes  
across the branches  
to secure the floor  
of that sky fort  
 
but we aren't meant to fly  
we're meant to bloom  
where planted  
connected to the earth  
 
iii.
 
i was born to break the levy  
so i will continue on  
until the last claw of my soul  
fails to grasp enough ground  
to pull itself forward  
 
till i splinter in the wind    
and my spirit realizes, once again  
it IS the poem—the fruit tree  
in the center of the garden  
rooted deep enough  
to bear an apple  
and offer every human  
 
a taste of its knowledge  
and hope