I can hide from some,
but a baby won’t stay small for long…
I confess to a long flowing dress,
inside, I feel like a mess.
He’ll stay with me now,
I’ve caught him now in my web.
They call me Mortisha,
as I strike with sticks and stones,
and words that I use,
or confuse the common meanings,
by reminding others of their delusion.
Dysfunction,
became my personality type,
but they’re all wrong… everyone else.
When this child is ripe and born,
will many see me with scorn?
Shall I be guilty or joyful?
Will this pregnancy turn on an easier door?
Or will I reside in the ER, the ICU, and on the OB floor?
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. Aspiring licensed mental health counselor. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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It echoes today: Jedi praise and life motto. But is it a trap? * Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can add your Insights, Comment, leave a Heart, Tip, Pledge, or Subscribe. I will appreciate any support you have shown for my work.
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Comments (2)
arggh he is caught by a pregnancy? The baby may suffer the consequences.
Gosh that was so intense and scary, especially that last line! Loved your poem!