this little light that shines…

I feel so raw

when my girl gets called

a loser.

I think so fast

when my love for her

is tossed

in the net of all their taunts.

They’re bigger than her.

So what?

They swagger, they sway

in her face

to stop her winning game.

They’d like to blow right out her light

a candle snuffed before its prime.

Yet in her heart she feels

some bright

that shines way beyond:

oh yes. She’ll have her time.

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the woe of the winning heart

I win a race. I achieve something great.

Yet the girls in the playground

mock me til I cry and I deflate.

What’s wrong with putting my all

into a sprint I really meant? Yet I bow and say

I’m sorry to the losers who cajole.

Can’t we all be equal partners in the race

of life and love? Or is losing just so shameful

that to want to win is a self-centred disgrace?