The Worst
my black ink flows into oceans of fear-
for I have been misunderstood by her,
as days of time run out of grains of soft sand
and shadows pierce shores of midnight mist
(I panic with tears thinking the worst of me).
maternal intuition has brought woe,
the worst of me resents her fear out of spite.
the bottom of a rock broke on my soul
and grey ash fell onto my bare feet;
you know, the ones she counted when I was born-
“a precious little girl was she at birth”,
then youth told tales of icy tears I wept,
a daughter wrapped in burlap craving silk.
I feel like a dull and poor dinner knife
does after meals of guilt with sides of shame-
worn out and flattened from bread breaking,
with she who made it for my family.
so now I tarry toward her smokey eyes,
and she looks at me like I’m a small babe,
and never sees the beauty worn in and out;
at times her smile shows hope and faith in me,
at times she sees the worst...something I am not.
August 7, 2019
Something I Am Not Contest
Craig Cornish
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