Ode To An Unborn Poem
by Novel Miseries
Hello, my child:
I write this, thinking of you,
Knowing you already -
Through your pulse which fills me
With this sick energy.
Though I do not know who or what you will be,
Only that you gestate inside me -
The product of poor judgment
And a tornado of emotion I can't control.
And that I'll push you out, not because I want to
But because it can be no other way.
I'll tell you sometimes that you were conceived
At the fireplace, in the warm glow of romance -
Other times, that you are the result of rape.
That it was a difficult labor,
So you'd better behave.
I'll threaten you with all the ones that came before you
Aborted in the third stanza,
Ripped from me by the vacuum of my mind,
Emerging a bloody mess of indistinguishable
Conjoined rhyming couplets
And half-formed metaphors -
And with the unworthy efforts of my past,
Torn from journals and discarded,
Burnt in a candle.
Forgotten, except in that dark corner of my heart
Which still aches for all the unborn potentials
And unfulfilled ideas of beauty -
And which hates for the same reasons.
I'll give you all of that
All my pain,
My selfishness and resentment -
And try to infuse in you
The hope that sometimes seems possible
In those pyrotechnic moments of joy,
All too brief
Where everything comes together.
It may not be enough
But it's all I have.
And so I'll feed you
On strained carats and linguistic formula,
Nurture your growing form,
And carry out my duties to you -
Content in the knowledge
That you will be
Fucked up.
Fucked up -
Just like me.
