Another Mortal Life

I'm the poem dumped.

How it all started haunts me like a mystery.
Look! Compare! He was so ordinary.
He claimed he made me! Oh shit!
We evolved together is all I can admit.

I remember the time when the first of my words was born
He stared at it for hours on and on
Unsatisfied, he decided to strike it off
Like it was the infected seed of his paddy crop.

And then there were more like the first.
Some were fortunate to make it to paper,
While others were aborted right at inception.
He called them children of lesser thoughts.

My incomplete existence wanted him to be kinder to them.
But he told me I had no right, I had no choice.
I was only a voice, said he, I was 'his' voice.
And it was immoral for voices to speak for themselves.



(I didn't have this thing in mind when I started it, but by the fourth paragraph it occurred to me that it can be written as an expression of the helplessness that women of the older times, and sometimes even in present times, must've felt against a forced abortion/infanticide. I could not continue the poem further, mainly because I thought that while talking of a sensitive issue, unclear statements should be avoided- which is something my poems fail miserably at. I was also not able to think along the lines of the original idea I started the poem with.

I will remember this incomplete, dumped poem; which, when started, wasn't really meant to be dropped midway.)