Don’t ask if I’m all right
unless
it seems as if I’m left–
fielding tosses
‘makes me cross
and skews the level stress–
turns resolve
to “be the ball”
to futile, fumbled quest–
‘makes me peek
in glass to seek
my worst instead of best.
Don’t ask if I’m all right
unless
my parts are clearly broken–
it makes me doubt
what I’m about
it’s better if unspoken–
it tries my will
it makes me ill
this self-fulfilling notion–
it worsens hell
when you can tell
I’m going through the motions.
Don’t ask if I’m all right
because
the answer’s always yes
I’m fine
I’m great!
there’s no debate
there’s nothing to profess…
©Karen Robiscoe
daily prompt: what Q gives you the heebie-jeebies
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