poetry critical

online poetry workshop

dead on arrival

This poem wants to birth.
I can feel it kicking inside of me.
My immaculate conception
without consent or warning.
Sometimes I squeeze my skull
and hope it finds an exit for release.
Or I get up and walk around,
attempt distraction or denial
because I have convinced myself
mother nature can be fooled.
This poem wants to birth.
My child, my parasite, my burden.
Its limbs poke me while I'm praying
driving or excreting.
I can feel my tongue wrestling
for expression.
Fingertips pulsating.
My body shaking with conviction.
But I will kill it soon
that I'm sure
expect no guilt no apology
because i have no need
to be taunted why
i cannot  have children.

23 Sep 17

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