When I rose into the cradle of my mother's womb
I was but a foetus, feeding through the cords from her core
Little and innocent, fate bulged me wrapped close to her chest
And I was there, quiet as a vein, quick as hot brimming tears
After weeks or more, I was prized with her grave from hunger.

At Nine or Ten, starving in me was born by fate
A nature of life I'm now at war with, including hate
And mom played her part, now I have the fight to find my size
To stand bold with the endless pricks of conscious, like a hundred thousand pins
Feeding myself for health through the...