Boy staring up,
at a father-shaped-pain,
by the beam,
on the third day
was not Jesus.

He stayed crucified,
he never left the vault
prisoned by your ribs.

I said I will never write
about you again.

The night peels itself
to another day,
my body is tired
and my mind drowsy.

Yet here I am, writing.
Every minute I give you,
is a currency I own
you don’t deserve.

But boy, you made boys.
They look up to you.
Look down,
for once say no
to the devils
that promise respite.

Do the hard work,
look in the mirror
don’t hold pain up
like a collateral,
to not see yourself.

Once you see the wound,
You’ll see the salve.

Boy staring up,
I said I will never write
about you again.

But some poems
are meant to be born,
just like you.

05/18/2021

Posted on 05/18/2021
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May