postpartumdepression
Learn more about other poetry terms
Lying on bed in the mid of night,
She watches the dazzling stars,
And turns to her sleeping child,
Whom she recently bore,
But now she deeply loathe her,
For a reason she can’t tell
I watch the old house all day and night;
I keep my vigil, never leaving my sight.
The oak they call me; the oak I may be,
But from birth I have stood here, with nothing unseen.
