Regretful Womb

9 is just a number they say.
9 months, a different meaning it does carry,
The bulgeness of the belly.
The magnificent stature recessed.
A being in the womb conceived.
The pang of birth yielded.

All this a disgrace.
A supposed blessing
Turned out to be a curse.
I bore a son with no dreams for chasing.
Alas, I bore a son for the streets.

A seed it was,
A seed of poverty.
I thought it was,
Thought it was novelty.

I thought with a sceptor in hand
He would rule the world.
Alas, he rules the streets, the shacks and bridges.
The fruit of mine,
Who knew it was a curse.

Born under evil,
Living under evil,
Influenced by the devil.
Oh, a being so sinful.

Son, seed of mine
Sorrow surges in me
Since stealing sandwiches
Became your habit and grew.
You were only five then.
Still stings me
It grew as you grew.

I can't say it out loud
With beaming pride
That you're the fruit if my womb.
I utter it with a wound
Both in my heart and womb.