You know how angst-ridden teenagers write rubbish poems, and then grow out of it? Well, I was one of those. For some reason, at the tender age of 29, I started again, today. I don’t claim it’s any good, I just claim to have written it.
A person growing inside me
You don’t seem real.
You’re just a bundle of symptoms,
Proving nothing, really.
And yet, you are real.
I know it.
The books tell me how big you are,
When you got your arms,
The eyebrows and fingernails that you’ve grown.
But the books don’t make you real.
No-one can tell that you’re there.
The only people who know about you,
Are the ones that I’ve told.
But I know that you’re there.
My belly is rounder, firmer,
And I know, deep down,
That you are real:
There’s a person growing inside me.
I was in the meeting/development day from hell, that’s the only reason. I got bored enough.