You call me hero and brave

Then turn to despise and slander.

Am I too much?

I swallow the anger,

I hold back the passion.

Or am I too little?

This weak talent,

This stunted gift.

I did not fulfill your dreams.

I handed them over to abortion.

Bloody piles of tender flesh

Rotting in the dark, sinful womb of mine

While my bastards stand by

Watching with glee, the murder.

I tried, and I beat them,

But they would not work.

My bastards only produce sorrow.

Although I weep and beg

“God, make me fruitful”,

My insides have nothing to yield;

No goodness.

Perhaps with enough torture

Enough alcohol or money…

There might be fertility.

But my poison soul ensures only death.

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