Sometimes, most vulnerable,
fears garbed as questions
trespass the garden
in the wound of the world.

'Why me?'
in a whinging repeat,
or
'Are you good enough?'
is another.

They trample the blossoms
praying for teeth.

Pain-skinned and loud,
Blind to obvious miracles,
Fruit of pain.
Unwanted like bacteria,
seasonal as a pimple
their din lessens
or goes away forever
using skills
you will either never learn
in a million lifetimes
or sudden

as acceptance.

02/05/2019

Posted on 02/06/2019
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May