I give birth to myself

I give birth to myself, so it seems.

I realised this as I mulled over which hole my skinny pipe should infiltrate.

Of course, its own intentions are flexible, as opposed to what my mind anticipates and lusts for.

My two hands clutch on it, hold it together and it behaves.

This way I find myself. And, this is how I know I give birth to myself.

I conserve resentment at the sight of discernment under my roof.

Yes, in the eyes of the enemy, I am capable of pulling punches with this broken wrist of mine.

I murmur hymns and silently recite celestial idioms; calling onto sincere influences.

Suddenly, I am entirely serene. That way, I realise I give birth to myself very often.

Surely, I give birth to myself.

Carrying an abbreviated burden, the world is still conspicuously beautiful in my eyes.

Bordering opinions toss attempts, this way. Yet, my pupils are fixed on the bigger picture.

I stretch both my lips, forcing them to part and interpret what the heart emits.

And then, the light seems to be all over the tunnel. This is how I know I give birth to myself.

I am convinced I give birth to myself because my etiquettes wear panties in sun-drenched climates.

Yep! I show my nipples in the rain, my pubes hang in washing lines, as my personality wanks in corridors.

But, my undies remain glued to my etiquettes. This is how I learn my water broke.

And, I understand that I continue to give birth to myself.

Happy read!