A pregnant woman in the store.
By fruits, fertile, makes me sore.
I implore upon a thought intrusive.
With her husband,quite illusive.
I cannot help but imagine the conception vividly.
The way she moaned as she felt the interoception.
I sicken, stomach twirls, in disgust.
At the thought of love and lust.
Women... so vile yet strong and gorgeous.
Feed, and feed as their uterus engorges.
Their menstruations, their situations from backpain to breastfeeding.
Screaming, bleeding, barely breathing.
Why would anyone want to be a woman anymore?
A pregnant woman in the store.
By fruits fertile, makes me sore.
I Implore a thought intrusive.
With an answer quite conclusive.
I have not more respect nor more frustration.
For anyone other, than a mother with abrasian.
Could I cleanse these women, no.
I must learn to live with it, let it go.
Perhaps my own mothers burial.
Has me understand their function and their reason.
For flowers can be fertile.
But often last just one season.