Ill Conceived

What were the circumstances of your birth?
Did you arrive to smiles? Frowns? Blank stares?
Nervous hospital staff embarrassed
By the slut-guilty circumstance of your conception?
Did your mother grow to erase you from her memory?
Were you her great traumatic burden?
Did you quite literally drive her to drink?
Were you handed out to the first available
Anybody's who could string a sentence
And buried in artificial pasts to erase shames?
Are you still so numb you wonder you exist?
Birthdays being an awkward annual reminder
That no-one really cared and they still don't
Not about anything actually important
Like the Olympus Mons of anger and pain
The outrage subsumed to burn deep below
So that you don't burnden people inconsiderately
Will death not come soon enough
So that you can become the abortion
That you always should have been, truth be told?
Do you want the asteroid to mercifully arrive
To wipe everything out and end your misery
Or murder everyone for their complicity
In leaving you with no known alternatives?
Futility is difficult to slowly proceed through
The burden of viewing external happiness
From a distance and them often misunderstanding
Why you're so naturally antinatalist
And a cosmic pessimist from the outset
Was this always the only possible inheritance
For being nothing and existing nowhere forever?