It feels like a baby just out,
perfectly laughing in your hands stout,
when a rash stutters and urges to itch,
and you drop the baby before the womb's stitch,
all in a moment, a cat's blink,
and you know you killed a baby pink,
you would want to bomb and suicide,
swallowed by a guilt's tide.
None could comfort you then, none ever,
you would be scared forever of the pen, write never.
Lost is a baby that could've been a life,
none is more pain not even a knife.
P.S. : I just accidentally deleted a story I wrote, and am excruciating such pain. And if you are a writer at heart, you better know, it's impossible to reproduce an art. It's gone.
perfectly laughing in your hands stout,
when a rash stutters and urges to itch,
and you drop the baby before the womb's stitch,
all in a moment, a cat's blink,
and you know you killed a baby pink,
you would want to bomb and suicide,
swallowed by a guilt's tide.
None could comfort you then, none ever,
you would be scared forever of the pen, write never.
Lost is a baby that could've been a life,
none is more pain not even a knife.
P.S. : I just accidentally deleted a story I wrote, and am excruciating such pain. And if you are a writer at heart, you better know, it's impossible to reproduce an art. It's gone.