There are those seasons
Of the life
That a happening unfolds
When a poets table turns
And
The life in the living
Is
An extended group of
Events
Each one
A profound poetic moment
Shaped of divinity and vibration

Child, your cry reminds me of my pain
So intense, fruitless and without any gain,
In my mother's womb, I bled my last
Memories of me aborted angers me to lambaste.

I hoped to taste the joy of being born
And caressed like any other child's horn,
But mother did you ever love this child
To have denied him access to your guide?

Hope you gave me when you thought to bare this child
Little wonder I choose a mother like you as my guide,
What then went wrong to have my blood shed?
So innocent a child you gave me no chance to be loved.

On you alone, I placed all my hope and trust
In your womb I thought to avoid rust,
But mother did you hate me that much your own son
To have a harmless child suffer the scorch of abortion?

Mother, you gave me no reason for my crime
To have loved and chosen a mother like mine,
With your hands you murdered your own blood
Oh mother, why the cruelty on this child whom you never did curd?

If you catch me fishing for compliments or looking for a fight
I just need to know I'm adequate, that everything's alright
I'm anxiously insecure, I easily regret
Mistakes are always on my mind, too heavy to forget
I'm suspicious of the little things, a skeptic to the core
Small changes make me nervous, I feel generally unsure
I'll always keep on asking things when I already know
Because anything can happen, people come and people go
That's why I need your confidence each and every day
I just need some reassurance so that I can be okay