An Advantage

There’s an advantage

to being picked last.

In far left field,

I had plenty of time

to plant some stories,

watching them
bloom in my mind

only for me,

until the bell rang.

Now that I am grown,

having known the delight of strength and speed,

when the metal leaves my will,

when scarlet whirlpools drain me,

when I wish
for at least the gracelessness of my youth,

I remember

those seeds planted in far left field.

But this time,

this time I am brave.

I plant.

Then I pick a bouquet.

Image used with kind permission of artist Reba White who has a 

blog and Facebook page devoted to dealing with depression and anxiety.

Song choice: Pocket Full of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield 

This poem was created from a prompt offered by Magaly Guerrero for NaPoWriMo (Creativity and Pain)