1,2,3
She is not free,
A heavy burden,
In her insides

Filled with pain,
She walks in the rain;
A storm of distress held before,
A norm of life held in the hand

An illuminated face she see's,
From groans and kicks within;
Yet no light beholds,
The face within the mask.

4,5,6,
She is in the mix,
Of pain and happiness,
From a world of deliverance.

Freedom she demands,
Yet no one listens;
A permanent virtue of life,
A constant struggle as a wife.

A sweet drink,
She has not;
A lovely ring of courage,
She wears, to brave the rage.
7,8,9
When will it be time?
For the hour,
Of labour and anguish?

Her presence is happiness,
To the essence of loneliness;
Yet a heavy womb,
She carries, day in and day out.

As the night rushes,
And the sirens wail;
Groans and distress heard within,
Grows behind closed doors.

And then,
The world is brought to a standstill,
Yet, hearts beat,
As the closed doors are opened to all.

Congratulations!
A voice is heard;
Filling tears in the soul,
Engraved on a cold ring.

Freedoms at long last, she cries,
As she removed her mask

Malignant Mindless Maternal, Maliciously Moulding murderous Motives.

The Peternal parted prior the proof of pregnancy, the tears of heaven gave
birth to emergencies.

On the highway way of pain lonely and melancholy on coming traffic was a thunder stream.
tradegy waiting impatiently like an honest thieve.

Her feet heavy, a womb of twins is what she carried.
The clouds washing sins from the tarmac her screams unheard,
she gave birth in silence.

Two healthy beautiful boys, baptised by the rain.
The pain she borne was no more, propelling the boys over the bridge.
The umbilical cords around their vocal cords.
Death was born and LIFE was lost

He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.