dj Aug 2012
We have engendered   them.

Our   babies.
Our annelids. 
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous  fluid
And  a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your  oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no  doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era

Pass through  Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart

Join Us.
based off a speech by "The Many" from the 1999 PC-game System Shock 2.
tyler Jun 2014

2. biracial hair

3. seeing my mother in love

4. the smell of nail salons

5. praise & worship

6. ny-is-thegoal

7. perfect execution
Arlo Disarray Jan 2015
How many times must I ask myself
"What's the point?"
Before I'll actually have an answer?

And I see all people
As disgusting pieces of
Trash, waste and cancer

I'm so fed up with trying
To understand these fools
Who insist on filling our population

And they just

Not realizing
Many mouths we're
Already feeding

And how

Auroleus Aug 2012
Babies in the microwave
Babies in the oven
Babies in a shallow grave
Babies need your lovin'

Babies smoking cigarettes
Babies cursing with tourette's
Babies in the garbage can
Babies on the ceiling fan

Babies reading Dostoevsky
Babies cruising on a jet ski
Babies naked on the beach
Babies fuzzy like a peach

Babies crying cuz you hurt them
Babies take it cuz they must
Babies lying cuz you hurt them
Babies I will never trust

Babies all of us once were
Babies drooling on the fur
Babies in the soup we stir
Babies life is all a blur.
Elioinai Oct 2014
I want a little berry, bright and red and round,
I want a little berry, to fill my ears with sound,
I want a little berry, my mind to astound,
I want a little baby, to always be around.
I want my hands to be filled with fruit,
To look in their faces, oh so cute,
To grow these sweets for my Father’s garden.
May 4, 2013
A million buds are born that never blow,
  That sweet with promise lift a pretty head
  To blush and wither on a barren bed
    And leave no fruit to show.

Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood
  One joy, by their fragility made plain:
  Nothing was ever beautiful in vain,
    Or all in vain was good.
I hurt
I think it's loss and disappointment from
"Hopes" that were never born,
Which leaves me so forlorn.

Oh, and I cry
almost every day now
and I sigh,
then he always asks why....

The pain in my heart,
Why does it go so deep?
the way I weep;
I grieve so hard,
they say I even call & cry in my sleep.

Pictures in my mind of children at play
a dream, a hope, never to be.
My grandfathers were veterans of war, they say.
Agent orange says "one out of four" you see.

Uncle Sam says "no compensation" for me,
No big family to be all around me.
I think I'll give up on me,

"Please make it go away!"  I say,
he can't,
and so he turns away.
Our future we cannot see,
afraid to dream,
afraid for me.

Going through the motions,
trying to do what's right.
Tried all the magic potions,
but  too much DNA's twisted up too tight.

Now I'm hurtin and bleedin all of the time!
Doctor says its gotta go, this womb of mine.
Adenomyosis, got into me, says I'll be fine.
But, no more babies! don't you see
I was not finished with my family!

I dont want to, but I know
I gotta go.
Now its gone,
still PMS-ing
Now I'm not healin' right!
Its depressing.....

8 weeks now,  still not released
and the mourning has not eased
Anger abounds when i awake
but I can't eat,
so then I shake.

So I just cry,
and blessed be,
ask God, Jesus and the angels
to have mercy on me
Infertility is, and can be very difficult on the person, the marriage, the family and one's' faith.  A glimpse of how my reproductive diagnoses have affected my emotional life.
Ellen Joyce Jun 2013
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.

My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a vagina failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, whore and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.

My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
When I wrote this poem to express the letting go of the babies much loved but never to be I thought of a song actually from the Prince of Egypt, a film I first watched in Hebrew, so I looked it up.
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
hush now be still love my baby dont cry
hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
sleep while you're rocked by the stream
Joe Cottonwood Jul 2015
At your breast he likes to play
Like an Olympian on the high platform
     he rears back,
     contemplates the distance,
     the object,
then lunges.

Today he grabs his own hair, pulls.
     And screams.
The more he pulls, the more he screams
     until I unclutch his fingers.

Don’t we all wish sometimes
     a big hand would swoop down
     to unclutch us
     from our mistakes?
Then, oh! to rear back
     and lunge
at life’s big love.
Francie Lynch Aug 2014
Byron and I play
The All Topics Open.
Eighteen holes  
Invariably draws nostalgic.
Byron mentioned he went to the WWF in Detroit.
I sliced into a childhood memory
Of midgets at Cobo Hall:
Cobo Hall, Saturday Night. Be there!
Byron started pitching old wrestlers and holds:
Leaping Larry Shane, great with the Anaconda Vice;
Killer Kowalski vs. Bobo Brazil, pinned by the Crucifix and Abdominal Stretch;
Dick the Bruiser tagging with The Sheik
To defeat Gorgeous George and Crybaby McCarthy.
Byron went on in detail, with tabernacle authority:
“It was a Bear Hug that quickly swung in to a Quarter,
then Half,
then Full Nelson;
Crybaby bounced off a knee,
Was driven to the mat and pinned
By a Front Sleeper.”

(Jimmy's newborn picture faded in,
and the pose he naturally struck
baby arms
cocked like a sideshow muscle man  
Daddy quipped: Dick the Bruiser.
I was Leaping Larry Shane.
Daddy quipped: Larry the Stooge.
I didn't see that move)

Byron was intense. I could hear, but
I was zoning.
Crybaby and Front Sleeper dazed me.
How time Venns.

I was pinned today.
I recognized the feeling.
Tagged, then pinned by
The inescapable
Baby Nelson.
You know the hold.
On your back.
Baby on chest, face down.
Jimmy was my baby brother. He was killed by a drunk driver.
Molly Barclay Feb 2011
Where do they go?
Capsized cradle womb.
When finished arranging dates, are they left in bins to drift into soil and water supplies,
To be drank and consumed, and absorbed by cells,
Fresh and new.
Are they burnt? The jigsaw piece foetus, climbing above the ozone layer and into orbit,
Spinning dizzy and without warning, leaking back into universe.
Do they burrow in warm tree sap and burst into the leaves, taking up sun and moon into opening gaping mouths,
Silent with premature lungs.
Do they return to you? Slowly crawling back to the womb, forming tiny eyes in particles, opening blood and bodies,
Ready to be replaced, collecting dust.
Sack Williams Feb 2010
When the eggs all hatch
inside of our bellies
and begin to bore holes
we will bear it
because we're
not good enough
for a doctor to touch

When we give birth to the babies of flies
we will love them like our own.
Because they're
not good enough
for better parents.

When our fly babies grow up
they will ask us why
they are so different than the other kids
We will tell them it's
because they are better
than the other kids.

When we die slowly and painfully
from sepsis when the holes
in our stomachs finally leak out
because we were too engrossed
in our fly babies
We will wonder if it was worth it.

After our funerals,
attended by our fly babies
and our parents
there will be hor d'eourves
with which our children
will mate.

Our dads and our moms
will eat the food
crunchy with their eggs
because they are not good enough
to ignore free food
we will be reborn.

And leave holes in the stomachs of those who made us not good enough.
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