They never want anything from her,
until they come to her door;
And when they leave, her tender heart bleeds,
for there's nothing they want, once more.
~
Even though she is young, she remembers,
the shame and guilt they have brought;
She blames herself for their mistakes,
and she wishes that she were not.
~
Each night since she can remember,
their nightly ritual's go on;
They climb in bed beside her,
she wonders what she's done wrong.
~
With roaming hands, they touch her,
in places that make her feel weak;
She utters not a single word,
she can't find the words to speak.
~
They continue to touch this child,
she endures this in heartache and pain;
"Adult Games," they call their playtime;
as the child lies there in shame.
~
And when at last they're finished,
they leave her alone in the night;
She doesn't know what just happened,
she just ***** her thumb as she cries.

She never wanted to be a Mom,
and now her life is nothing but wrong;
What will she tell everyone she knows,
maybe she'll wait until she shows?
~
The Fetus who slumbers in her Womb,
one day will be running out of room;
She must Abort this one in her,
for shame she simply can't endure.
~
She makes an appointment at the clinic,
know one must know, no one must see;
She arrives the next day, still so unaware,
that her Fetus is growing, lots of hair.
~
They lay her on a Hospital bed,
where soon the Fetus will be dead;
The Doctor inserts a clear, long tube,
where it wreaks havoc, within the Womb.
~
The baby moves away from it,
it feels like she has just been bit;
Upon her face, there is a scowl,
it's much too late to turn back now.
~
The hose clamps on to her very, small hand,
the Fetus can't cope, nor understand;
It pulls the hand right off the arm,
yet Mother thinks she did no harm.
~
Next it grabs onto her hip,
and her tiny leg begins to rip;
Emersed in pain, she pulls away,
she'll not live to see another day.
~
At last it latches onto her head,
the heartbeat stops, this child is dead;
She smiles, her reputation intact,
a conscience is one thing she lacks.

She walks to grade school,
sack lunch in her hand;
Dressed in old, tattered clothes,
that a Flea Market had.
~
She hangs her head low,
don't want them to see;
The bruise 'neath her eye,
which is now blue and green.
~
Her shoes do not fit,
they're too large for her feet;
So she stumbles along,
then falls to her feet.
~
Since her lunch yesterday,
she's had nothing to eat;
She sheds a small tear,
which runs down her cheek.
~
Children pass by her,
they point as they laugh;
And under her breath,
she lets out a gasp.
~
She despises those bullies,
for the things that they do;
So she quickly runs home,
grabs a gun from Dad's room.
~
She rushes to school,
she'll make them all pay;
So she guns down nine children,
uncontained is her rage.
~
A teacher subdues her,
wrestles her to the ground;
Her killing spree's over,
yet she makes not a sound.
~
Nine children lay dead,
everyone is in shock;
They all learned a lesson,
No one's to be mocked!

the universe
has gifted me
a patient soul