Abortion's, A Mothers Love Poem by Adeosun Olamide

I was conceived in April
The expression of two bored youth,
That knew not what a beautiful cloud was.
One was drunk, often was
For the drinks put a mist upon her fears
And cause to blur and peace, her sorrows or thoughts
A sorrow that had many roots,
The other, a boy, a virgin, hoping to be a man,
For, such act deem him grow, has heard.
Had other ambitions too,
But sometimes
The most pressing ambition can be to rest or be seen,
And such was his, the only.

In a room poorly lit by the bulbs in the sky, conceived
On a bed linen unwashed, in a terrible heat,
She knew it wasn't the heat,
For though strongly built,
It was as though he took a pee,
And she was the toilet,
For it -reeked him, he will tell his friends,
The friends who tells how to be a man,
And who now tell the ladies how weak he is,
But he needed not be strong to conceive,
For I was there, sprinting in his orgasm,
Trying to get out of him, I, an elderly there,
And I did, standing out, a seed
Upon some earth which knew me not,
And though they came, frequent, other seeds,
They knew now, she was mine, my territory alone,
But soon I began to get weary of their happenings
And soon, she began to feel,
For though I have been, I was, so quietly unnoticed,
But now she learnt I was there,
Sucking up her nutrients, sucking up her strength,
Sucking up her beauty, sucking up her youth,
Causing her to slip when she danced,
And so she learnt I was,
But a seed brought by the breeze, a weed.
I moved to ease, close to her heart,
For there, I felt safe,
Safe from her thoughts, she knew not,
For the drinks put a mist upon those,
And cause to blur what she could,
But there, in the absence of her life,
A gentle madness brew,
That caused her to know I could hear,
And made her know I could feel,
For she put her hands upon my face,
And said to me in June,
‘Do not sprout; no more do for here is a desert
Hush, wither, better here '
And though there, I felt the love of a mother,
And have learnt she loves me by wanting me not,
For she knew, she couldn't cultivate me yet,
And I might, being, be a weed like you, on,
Unloved, lost in the cold, upon some hollow,
Growing such thorns, that pierces most
Hoping now a mist upon my fears.