I’ll never have kids,
But I’m pregnant with words,
Made fertile by my experiences with you.
My fruits,
Would reshape the world if it let them,
If only they could exist.
There’s this burden we carry,
This burden we are.
It defines and confines us
Entwines us in our own yarns.
My burden is distinct,
It’s hard to tell you what it’s like,
To not make babies but only make rhymes,
To deal with it all knowing
the time,
the time,
the time,
How can I explain it?
What it’s like to exist..?
To be stitched together,
And filled with shit,
But none of it life,
None of it real,
A fabricated mess of pain
And doubt congealing on a spinning wheel.
But I guess you get it anyway,
C’est la vie, that’s what it’s like to exist.
Everything’s so goddamn important,
And meaninglessness subsists.
The only thing I have that’s real,
Is the sadness I share,
This pill you swallow
Of the burden I bare.
So take it for what it is,
Hope it’s to your liking,
It is what it is.
A part of me needs you to have it,
A part of me hates you for taking it,
A part of me fears what it will mean to you,
A part of me would love to just forget.
But does it matter anyway?
Is it even real?
This burden that you’re grasping to feel,
Is as real as the babies who’ll never be
Born of my non-existent womb.
But I hope what I carry
Can still carry meaning
That keeps you coming
For me baby;
Again, and again, and again.
