By Kimelia Carter
"Cold, distant, white, sterile
The new model for baby making
Once a time full of grit, sweat, and bodily discourse
Has become a breeding ground for a doctor to fill his purse
A woman, in the room, waiting
With her legs up high
Waiting for the doctor’s hand to start touching her thighs
He is now wrist deep assessing her womb
Stuck in an old dispassionate stare
She remembers the fun
she use to have down there
She begins to realize her part is the hardest
Or so it seems
Because somewhere else, somewhere unseen
In the room, the men are watching scenes
Pornographic on computer screens
Not yet realizing that with the jerk
Of a wrist
He has entered a risk
Producing a seed,
Thousands indeed
That will enter a race where only one
Will win his place
In the aftermath of all his cum
But with what seems to be the size of a turkey
baster
The doctor proceeds to lace her
Filling her deep with an unknown seed
Producing a person she’ll only know half of
She sits lost in thought
As the doctor removes the glove
“Alright miss you’re all done.”"
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