†
JMJ/AMDG
Ten fingers, Ten toes
She's laughter and teardrops
So small and brand new
And amazingly angelic
She's sent to bless you
She's one special Baby
The best of life's treasure
And will grant and bless you
Many hours of great pleasure.
Author Unknown
It Isn't A Baby!
It isn't a baby! Just some tissue that swells;
A growth, or a lump, or a mass of dead cells.
An unwanted condition, like a wart or a mole;
To be burned off or cut out - no body, no soul!
How can it be living? How could it feel pain?
It can't speak, see, or think, 'cause it's only a membrane.
A cancer, a lesion, some small, nasty thing;
Like a cyst or a tumor that requires surgery.
What's all the commotion? Why all of the fuss?
It's only a sac, full of nothing but puss!
So what if I hack, chop, or stick it, so what?!
After all, it's my body! So stop riding my butt!
Don't need another burden, no, nothing to raise;
I've got more than my share of bills to be paid.
Who needs to be laden with a mouth to be fed?
Got to think of myself! Not some unwelcome dread.
Why should I have to live with a mistake that I made
for the rest of may life - that's not fair! I'm no maid!
Just one night of fun, that's all that it took,
to be stuck with a sucker: fun-robber! a crook!
If I have it aborted, I'll be free from the blob;
Won't have to be tied by a chain to that hob!
Won't give up my freedom, oh no, Sir! not me!
I reject any and all responsibility.
And if it survives after failed attempt,
I'll just let them kill it, won't look; be exempt
From that bloody, gross sight, from upsetting recall -
Then I'll walk away happy, no regrets; none at all.
Tomorrow, you ask? I'll be okay then, too;
I've got plans for myself! Lots of things I must do:
Got a job I won't leave, and a future to enjoy;
Won't ever know if it was a girl or a boy...
I guess I'll just put it right out of my mind,
I'll buy myself something, relax, and unwind
with a drink and a night out with friends who are fine
with my "choice" as it were; after all, it was mine!
They told me I'd soon feel different, those folks:
Those 'Pro-Lifers' with signs, 'Jesus lovers', those jokes!
They're not me, they don't know who I am or my dreams;
They can't tell me how I'll feel, no matter how bad it seems!
And where was their God, where was He when I fell?
Does this mean their kind Jesus will send me to Hell?
I don't believe in a God who would cause me such suffering and pain,
To be burdened in this life, and forever in flame!
So I think that there is none; no God, anyway -
No consequences owed for my action today.
There was no thunder booming, no lightening above;
No, nothing happened when he slipped on the glove.
The kind understanding they showed me today,
When those nice people sliced, slashed, my baby away:
They knew what I needed, God didn't show up!
Where was he if He really existed, GROW UP!
And if I do cry tomorrow, that won't be so bad;
It's part of the process, of cutting the trad.
It's the "medical procedure", expected as planned -
No need for concern; no, no one is damned!
Yet, somehow I sense something quick setting in,
Some dark cloud of conscience, some guilt from within;
Could it be I was wrong, and indeed was a sin
To have butchered my baby, a real baby, my kin?
It isn't a baby, it isn't a sin!
I'll just walk away and forget where I've been.
I'll stay in denial, and with all of my might,
I won't let regret in to fill me with fright.
But, if it isn't a baby, then why am I sad?
Though I choose not to show it, I'm feeling real bad!
What if there is a God, would He 'choose' to forgive?
Could this 'Jesus' still love me, after the thing that I did!?
"It Isn't A Baby", they told me in there,
"You've done the right thing, now, don't give it a care!"
But I think they were right, Those 'Pro-Lifers' on the street;
They told me I'd regret killing those quivering, little feet -
And those tiny, sweet fingers, that cute little nose;
so helpless, and needing her Mommy to hold
Her and care for her, keeping her safe, warm, and loved -
'stead of letting that awful butcher slip on his glove.
- "It Isn't A Baby!", © 2009 by Adrienne M. Szatkowski.

It Isn't A Baby!