The Worst Feller

Chopping a wood

Is an alien activity

For me, I was born in a city.

So never open your mouth in awe

Or scoff when I handled

The axe it’s slightly askew

That expectedly it couldn’t cut a block in two.

Don’t make your voice so loud

In an animated tone that you sounded like a hero

And told everyone around,

“It took me a day to perfect it!”

When that sound traveled to my ears

It would hit me like a fever

Or paralyze me as good as dead.

It would fly me to oblivion where emptiness wrapped me

Where I levitate and dream like there’s no tomorrow

At that moment I would leave the axe

Stuck on a log

That a mother would scold her children,

“Do not go near that devilish weapon!”

If you hadn’t spread that byword

I would’ve taken that wrong route.

Perhaps as a rotten memory

Now, I would deliberately erase it.

You stifled a promising habit

An innocent supposedly pleasurable endeavor

Would’ve made me a sterling man,

A friend to the crowd,

A handyman one could call.

I couldn’t comprehend the chaos

You engraved in my being

That every time a new enterprise began

I wouldn’t raise a hand

Or show a face in a multitude,

Rather I hide and run very far

To a place I could envision myself

Creating products that would’ve been real

If you hadn’t shared your two cents

And a façade that unabashedly scowled.