White stuff...

White threads,
swimming around in transparency.

I'm a mass-murderer,
With every jerk of my fist,
Pumping out millions of potential lives.

Curious creatures,
swimming around on my bed-sheets,
in their futile search for the ever-elusive egg.

Their potential for life wasted,
for my sadistic pleasures.

Though I don't do it as often as before.
Why is that?
Am i going impotent, older, sterile?

Are my bags running dry,
from over-use,
or exhaustion.?

Are these over-heated circuits,
of my white machine,
destroying my daughters,
before they're born?

But as i orgasm once more,
none of it matters,
And i am truly, blissfully,
happy and in heaven.

and some people say abortion is murder.
well,
what does that must make me?
a mass murderer?