This is a personal documentation through poetry.
I am learning to look inward now, give myself love when I least want to. I do not live to love others, I live to love myself. I will find and create what is enough for me, and you will learn to let it...
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And then the baby tumbles, Into the chamber on the floor. Wood panels turn to arms, and the man blossoms with uncertainty, Turning just too late to be in the baby's life. Just too late. And then a picture book flies off the shelf, Into the eye of the mother. Being blind doesn't stop her from loving, It only stops her from coming to fruition. The man sees a baby has been born for her, Not him. And he mumbles something unsettling, Catching her off guard. His arms become the wooden panels, Full of nails this time, Dragging the baby with him. If he cannot have blind love, He will take the bud it grows from.
