These Words Are My Children

These words are my children, floating
freely in the lukewarm womb
of my mind, incubated
in the darkest valleys, fed
off my fear & frustrations,
my fury & futility,
my fire & foreboding—floating
spinning, fighting, kicking
until it feels like I can no longer
hold them in
as if they were to burst forth
in some enormous eruption
of blood & brains and meaningless
verse.

These words are my children—each
one delivered to the world
after hours, days, years
of hard labor—the more I force,
the more they fight; I push
& push and they dig,
dig their claws into my skull.
Would that it were as simple
as an episiotomy to bring them
forth, I would slice my mouth
straight across and live
at peace with my jagged grin
if it would ease the pain;
but at the brink of despair,
it seems, they ease out—precious
& unsafe.

These words are my children—infants
to be molded & metered, measured
& mothered until they have matured
enough to meet the world. I am sad
when they leave me. I am ashamed.
My children-lost in a world where
their power slowly dwindles, where
they will be unloved, unappreciated,
discarded & forgotten; lost
in a world where apathy reigns
and truth is devoid of meaning.
And I, their once proud mother
must suffer that pain worse than labor—
I must watch my children die.

These words are my children—
but alas, I cannot protect them.
They are doomed:

these words are not fertile
enough to feed you
these words are not elusive
enough to free you
these words are not intelligent
enough to teach you
these words are not gentle
enough to touch you
these words are not powerful
enough to incite you
these words are not even eloquent
enough to express
how much I love you.

These words are just my children—
from my lips to your ears,
from my hands to your eyes,
looking for homes
in your hearts
where they just might live
forever,
if not for the cold
iron bars.