For an amber lady beetle, it’s a challenge to be heard. My hum blends in with the usual buzz of the urban wild. My voice hides beneath blankets of blaring conversation. Each note of my song was in vain, so I resolved to be silent as I dissolved into the greenery.

 

Lucky ladybird to discover a loophole;

The ultimate escape from helplessness was

A graphite scepter that allowed me

To form worlds and speak out.

I trained in telepathy of stories.

Finally, I could move my wings.

 

But I couldn’t fly.

There were currents I

Preferred to avoid.

Verse anxiety

Plagued my prose-set mind.

I rode the calm winds,

Sneaking peaks at the

Ones they called poets.

But with a nudge towards

The sky, I began

To eavesdrop as well.

 

Eyes,

Ears,

Wings open.

Those tangible

Words

Like

Honey

Dripping

Oozing

Into

Souls.

But

An

Olympic

Sport:

I’m too old

To

Start—

Or so I

Thought.

Like

One you

Love, it’s

Worse

To be

Without

 

Weaving daily hodgepodge,

Jumbles losing logic,

Fledgling painting chaos

Greater than not trying.