Growing Pains

If only.
If only they knew
and could see
and had felt
it.

The growing pains.

A tumultuous
and irrepressible
growth
accompanied by
exact and
excruciating
pains.

We had
tried.
Tried in every
which-way
and that-way
and slant-way,
even.

Tried to make
wonderful,
ourselves.

Having poked
and prodded
and plucked
and painted
and faked.

A thousand smiles
for a lifetime.
Faked.

We did try,
those times.
To make wonderful,
ourselves.

But they did
not feel the
growing pains
rising in the
abdomen like
molten rock,
threatening to
burst the
lies.

They did not
see the cracks
and fissures of
each false face
threatening to
break and
expose.
They did not
know.
They did not
understand,
that is.

How to learn,
how to cave,
how to heal.

They could not
break away
from their old
habits and
silly pretenses.

The pains
did not sway
them;
they could not
become themselves.

They had not
known that,
to make wonderful,
they must first
have
wonder.
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