Guilt permeates my vital organs
Every time I see the faces of innocence.
They haunt me when I least expect it,
And even when I do,
My mind is far from blind
To the experience that I declined.
I know that I did the right thing,
But I am still hurting.
No tourniquet can cease the meandering flow
Of blood bringing life to my inflamed conscience.
It causes me to weep
Whenever a baby coos.
With every hour of every day
(Twice as much on Monday,)
The laborious task of living with intense guilt
Escalates into a career
Where overtime is mandatory.
I have not a clue what my salary is.
Should I be the one who pays?
More and more, I repent for sins that are difficult
If not, impossible to absolve.
Less and less, I immerse myself into the outside.
A blind voyeur is what I have become,
Watching what I have created turn sour
Without actually seeing it occur.
Maybe I deserve this guilt.
Maybe I deserve to be withdrawn.
Maybe I deserve to never be able to procreate ever again.
If I still have that opportunity,
Maybe I deserve to have history repeat itself threefold
And threefold once more,
Resulting in never having a son or daughter
Possessing my surname.
For all I know,
There are probably amenities still in tact
And/or aspects of my life that are stable
That I never deserved to begin with.

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