My right to my own life,
Why is it always last?
When I grow seed in me
My self is over-passed.
For pleasure sex had I,
And joy of my love’s pride,
But when I’ve seed in me
It is as though I’ve died.

The me who’s really real
Is counted all for naught
And that is held ideal
Which is a whole man not,
Nor independence has,
Nor dream or thought or brain,
Nor stuff to make a soul,
Nor virtue can attain.
And they, these mad blind men
Who fear a vicious priest,
They make their laws, and then
Consign my life to least.

But I, I see the truth,
That some laws evil are,
And breaking them is great,
And pure as any star—
When, following my choice,
With violence to none,
In thought and act and voice
I guard the highest one
That I have ever known—
My self, my self, my self!

And yet, should my desire
Be personal motherhood,
I will not raise me higher
By saying I am good;
I will not hear their voice
Who praise me for my choice.
I’ll choose for selfish me
And not for selfless them.

My love for me will flow
To what I’ve given birth;
From me he’ll blessings know,
My life will give him worth.
If self he learns to trust,
‘Twill be from mommy proud
Who teaches as she must
To stand with head unbowed.
Then he (or maybe she)
Will be no mad man, blind,
But wish all men to see
By light of their own mind.