Songs of a Beaten Foetus

I sing the songs of a beaten foetus
Throat hung by an umbilical noose of excuses
Strangled by coagulated blood clots
That drip and drop lost thoughts
Thickening, half-caught in premature brain rot
Thickening what’s taught as the same plot
The pain stops.
Now stuck in a rut, trapped in the cage of Azania’s hips
Wrists twisted a little bit, split like a forearm slit
And the fires that dript from the drops that dript
Well in the womb and suckle on milk
Made sour by Azania’s un-nurturing tit
So bitterly sits her deeds on the young infants lips
That it struggles to speak
Over its mother’s stuttering speech
Cause the youth trip over her words
Although it’s her tongue that slipped
So hush young one, unclench your defeated (de-foet-ed) fists
Let yourself go, and drift towards the peace
I will sing your song
I will place the pains of cynical sympathy right where they belong
Replace the claims of impotent empathy, only right when you are wrong.
Incubating in an amniotic fluid of saturated ideologies
With a numbing sensation of lullabying anaesthesiology
Hypodermic? Probably,
But the thoughts acidic, commonly
So her pregnancy’s mismanaged
The child attempts to heal damages
Its will still bleeds real as feelings constrict bandages
Thus it’s pain that ravages
And playfully mishandles it
Knowing that you’d rather die than face the worlds savages
Although you’ll never know fear, you seem to miss courage
Hidden in the rubble of misdeeds and fiend rubbish
So I will sing your song, oh mistreated and beaten foetus
Waiting for that day and time that you will reach us
A day you try postpone and try to hide from
But it’s too late, and yes, the time has come
that you forcibly still born
but a body without a life, a still-born.