I’ll call you my muse in tiny shoes.
You’ll scream out dreams and I’ll embrace them,
Chase them for you, if you want me to.
You’ll call me mummy with the funny tummy.
I’ll have warm arms and a soft heart,
But it’s a start, if you want it to.
They’ll call you a heart-killer, a lady-thriller.
We’ll have a big family tree, you and me.
That I’ll guarantee, if you want me to.
Anything I can say to make you stay,
I’d say it all a million ways.
You’re three months gone,
And there’s no way to fix,
That I’m not strong enough,
To carry you for another six.
© 2017 L R Griff
Sometimes she writes. Sometimes she doesn’t. Either way, she’s not doing what she’s supposed to be doing.