The weed, my love,

Pushes through the dirt,

Rumbling, blistering,

But doesn't really hurt,

She sprouts up,

Without permissions,

Just to find,

That no one listens.

Cut or pulled years later,

From the roots she forged with care,

You can see the falling tear,

From the eye that was never there.

She will rot, Just as all.

But, she didn't have to.

If the womb, so pure,

Can be held by something -- same,

This could be our cure!

To abide by something sane!

Let there be life!

Don't let it rot.