Poetry To Me Poem by Tebogo Tshegofatso

inside this womb,
a woe of woes,
poetry has shined
days without number,
so i employ her
and tell of worlds to come,

the first one is
a stiff breast 
in the power of a suckling,
so shall poetry 
be to me;
a breast flowing with
honey and milk,

the second world
bows at the
gibber of a crawling 
 toddler,  
poetry shall be
the knees and hands
i will mercilessly
bruise but harden,

in the third world
i shall learn to call
poetry slave of slaves,
with my gibber,  
with my babble and nonsense,
i will teach poetry
to be there in my miserable
hours,

finally, when i've finally
overcome these,
in my teenage years
i shall make her
my scapegoat
and blame her for
my desires and
crushes lost,

but when i die
i will cry her forgiveness,
poetry shall be
flesh of flesh
and bone of bones,
etched onto my heart,
i shall present her
to my maker as
my reasonable service!