When the moon soars abloom,
The God rests the doom,
Like a hand that guides a spoon,
Moon that nests alone fresh and unborn,
Slithers its way,
The purest ache of yearning's sway,
As the cloud take heed and veil it away.

Last night I poured a cup of tea
For every problem wrong with me.
And when the list of guests was up,
For me was left an empty cup.

I wonder–

Will a world full of poets
Be happy
or sad.

Am I suffering beautifully?
Do I wear my agony like a crown?
Adorn it with pearls and jewels,
And parade it into town?

Is my pain reasonable enough?
Do I raise it up or tone it down?
I’ll try to cry pretty, tiny tears,
In fact, I'd do it in my gown!

For even in despair, I should be desirable,
Dare not to be emotional, dare not to make a sound.
To be a woman is to bleed, but glamorously.
There shall be glitters in the meltdown.