Death's Baby Poem by Tanner Herndon

She was pregnant with Death's baby,
The machine-gun blast of the typewriter made
A bed of hot gold, as the carcass of shells hit the floor,
I took the last drag of my cigarette, and pitched it,
Three strikes, you're out,
She left me with nothing, and I gave her everything,
How could she do this to me?
After all, I am the one everyone fears,
They shiver in my presence, faint with lifeless eyes,
They come to me when they have nothing left to say,
I just want to see my baby, but I can't,
Because she's still alive.