motherly lost.

the womb never felt so dry and cold.

can't help but feel like i was,

a miscarriage that was born.

but don't you worry, i don't need you,

i'm my mother of my soul,

and when i count to ten,

the sheep make sure that i can let go.

and hate grows hate in all ways,

in all ways that i hate.

what if all these steps

lead to inevitable fate?

and so i lead the way through,

just like i do.