So here we are again with more poems written by babies. (Their innermost thoughts are way more eloquent than you'd think.)
Alas, poor man of grief am I,
The shiniest penny
ripped from your grasp
just inches from your lips
The bathroom door
slammed shut again
on your hopes and dreams
of splashing unfettered in the toilet bowl
and unrolling all the paper...
Cruel woman, why do you delight in my torment?
Foul temptress, why do you mock my pain?
For what is a home
full of detergent pods,
and electrical cords
if one is not free
to quench his yearning
to taste them?
Yes, I know the aching,
the burning hunger,
the desperate desire to possess
I can never have.
Well-acquainted am I
with the heartache,
Ceiling Fan (a haiku)
Captivating me for hours—
Wait, are those my HANDS?!
A Ballad for Lunch Time
I think I'll start by dumping out my milk into my rice
and slapping the puddle with my palms. Why yes, that feels quite nice.
Next, I'll smash some peas up in my fists to make a paste
Which I'll rub into my hair and ears and all across my face.
When that gets sort of boring I'll try to start a game
of Peek-a-Boo but for some reason, you don't want to play.
It might be amusing to hear my bowl clatter to the floor...
(I was right, it was hilarious but you don't seem too sure.)
I slap away the applesauce and send it flying through the air,
Then accept an entire spoonful which I sneeze into your hair.
I admire your determination in trying to make me eat
but let's agree to disagree and you admit defeat.
I need a bath and you've got to change, which isn't that surprising—
it's just not my fault I find the food more fun than appetizing.
What would YOUR baby write about?