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