Learn Yr Children Well

The Wanting Parent, egoist.

A man or woman,
        Consciously
[Sub]
                            aware of
Their confidence in their ability
To be models of responsibility
In rearing their brood.
Success in their seminal investment
Should come with interest
In their own flaws, and application
Of lessons in self-improvement
When interacting with their child.
They have to have as much regard
For the unborn potential, as they do
For the sacredness of Death and resting

But,
You should know when enough-is-enough.

Think about this when you protect
And propagate.

With the lights off and candles lit,
an orange haze filled the room.
Scents of salts and oils,
Lavender and vanilla,
Filled her nose and put her at ease.
In an instant the world was lifted
And her shoulders straightened
With its blades flying back
Giving her breastbone a crack
---Like a single knock on the door
That keeps her heart guarded.
It startled her to the point at which
She flew up her hand
And placed its fingers at the origin
Of the thunderous sound.
Her palm cushioned on the inside
Of her right breast, inclining her hand,
Straightening, and directing its digits
To that snapping piece of armor.
She found no chinks there.

Again at ease, she lowered
herself
Into the source of the haze:
A cauldron of potion brewed in hopes
To cure all that ails her tender and bruised
Body and soul, taken in an act of purification.
As her feet slowly sank to the bottom
They drew the rest of her into the bath.
Her skin, seared by the water
Little-by-little, slowly, while gasping in silent prayer.
Her pores opened, creating a vacuum
In which all stress flows out one direction,
And endorphins flow in another;
Occurring until the valves shut,
And her body had settled,
Sufficiently flooded with pleasure.

Submerged, red-skinned, and smirking,
Feeling longer as her body decompressed.
The dead world with which she burdened herself
Slowly faded from her short-term memory,
Allowing a flow of thoughts reflecting
The physical pleasures of her own sphere.
Her hair dipped further into the water
As she succumbed to remembrances
Of lovers whom she had taken
And whom had taken she
As if in the act, there was nothing left
Of her to be found outside of the moment.
With these thoughts her perineum muscles
Flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed,
And just as the water drew out her stress,
Minute amounts of urine and ejaculate
Released from her body and into the bath
---The final ingredient in this brew,
One that dirties the bath
With purpose to be contrary.

When the water went cold
With no more room to run the hot.
No more topping off the night,
It was time to check out
And retire to a solid surface.
It was laborious to stand,
And when she did,
She felt reborn.
However, when the fluid was wiped
There was no smack on the ass
And there was no crying,
Just a slight smile shining
through the mist.

When I stopped talking to God
I found that I had little to say.
So used to bitching and wishing,
Hoping my words would fly up
And reach the deity's deaf ears,
I forgot how to talk to myself.

Leaving my spiritual nest,
I said, "So long!" to a father figure,
And I became my own angel:
With wings to take flight
And a moral compass
To find my way instead of wind
Blowing me in whichever direction.

My halo forged from chain-link fences,
I open the world to my Eden,
And show them that I've taken down
Barriers of ideology, tearing down
My holier-than-thou shroud,
Getting down to the dirt,
And let my blood and bones show,
Saying, "See? We aren't so different."