A Laughingstock of Sadness

I am the daughter of sun itself, 

From collecting berries at daybreak 

to wearing a shadow of dysfunctionality as soon as the evening sets in 

My gloom keep grasping for new bounds to venture 

Everything is quite slow in me, silence, love wrapped in silence 

I grow old, my locks turning pale as the grass preparing for mist in memory of an upcoming winter 

The weather is pretty unpredictable these days, isn't it? 

Men have stopped asking me for a laughingstock of sadness 

and I like a breeze tell them that this rustling near their ears isn't air, it's the puff they always stop short of inhaling 

What is it that you call invasion? 

This sanitized version of grief that I am supposed to carry since time immemorial

Or, this slapstick comedy where I bloat on everyone's humor but not yours 

I am the daughter of earth you see

I run wild and foolishly have a strong belief on everything and everyone that comes my way 

The mythical, damp, pungent smell for instance that always reminds me that I am someone else

I have never been yours to be held

If you've ever heard of a woman with feet singing as if they were token of passion burning like wildlife

Or, a woman putting herself on the edge of a knife for your sake 

Remember that faith rang enormous in every wound she ever had 

So much so that when they were pushing her into death 

She made everyone believe that, it is not a false narrative of feminism, 

when she burned or drowned herself in the very tears 

that has been defined by you

It's love, all in all.