Writing a poem

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,
Your legs,
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.

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