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Rated: E · Poetry · Death · #1024788
It's not supposed to be in any fixed form
My Baby


I loved you from the day the stick turned blue
I scrolled through baby books with names
I dreamed up silly games
In nine months it would be him, me and you

But you, my baby, were not meant to be
Maybe it was because I was eighteen
Maybe it was because he was so mean
I learned some things you just can’t guarantee

A shove, a grab, a scream, a burn
A drop of blood and it’s all through
I sat all alone in the hospital
A doctor told me I was losing you

Three years gone by, from him I’ve broken free
But you, my baby, remain a constant memory.
© Copyright 2005 Nellie13 (kornelia at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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