Woman's Grief

Quiet, rainy days

and I'm ready to scream

scratching at the walls of my universe

aching for something different

the familiarity of wet pavement

under my bare feet in the afternoon

and the sing-song teasing of the wind

are all meaningless; all too often

Maybe I should have died in March

to ease the monotony of unreal pain

My life is remembered for

waiting on fantasies that never come true.

Do these responsibilities make me a woman?

These physical components, these mood cycles?

Is it the gentle caress of compassion,

or the tears shed for my corrupted innocence?

Who here will take the blame for my cracked existence?