The pledge

Do it now. No more excuses,

maybes or what ifs.

Time has passed you by,

while you stewed in rumination

at what, you agonise and gripe about, is supposedly, in your own words, missing. 

Sure, you might buck up

once she weans off breastfeeding.

That's what you always say.

You'll write again,

when she sleeps in her own bed.

Hah. Don't make me laugh.

When will you ever learn,

that someday, she'll make her own breakfast and feed the cat?

You, on the other hand, will have nothing, 

but white hairs on your head,

and possibly, grief and ashes 

in some urn.

Let me remind you, you dear fool.

What did you say you wanted to avoid doing,

that one time when you,

with your tight, flat tummy, untouched by 

childbirth,

watched Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society,

read the words of Henry David Thoreau,

"The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation"?

That's right. Feel her teeth

as she bites on your nipple.

Feel her weight on your right arm,

the pain of your wrist as you swipe across the phone to type sentences,

your nipple cradled between her sleeping lips.

Feel the pain of your brain 

churning out words

Feel.

Just feel. 

P.S. I know, that dude didn't give birth,

but hey, he's got a point.

Stop making excuses.