Does The First Time Always Hurt Poem by James McLain

The why is a common myth, it is not unlike,
a new leaf,
that is gently picked for the very first time.
Over time,
when time is not seen first uncovered, snow comes.
Berries picked for their wine.
Baskets filled full to the top, pickers talk.
A woman thawed, flush and warm to the touch he has stopped.
A common myth at the why, as one way leads to the moon,
slowly walking down the path to the gate to her home.
Long narrow hallways, that lead from the door to the porch,
music play's.
Being distracted I have now almost forgotten what I've
started to do.
Most of the women I've seen have got what I have.
Inside of his head I am.