The Woes Of Womanhood

The crimson tide returns with heavy hand,

To claim its tribute from the weary frame;

A rhythmic ache no soul can quite withstand,

That sets the lower abdomen aflame.

The spirit sinks beneath a leaden cloud,

While sudden tears descend without a cause;

The body’s strength is broken and is bowed,

By nature’s harsh and unremitting laws.

Sharp daggers twist where gentleness should dwell,

And phantom weights pull deep within the bone;

A week endured within a private hell,

Where every nerve is tuned to throb and groan.

The cycle turns, a fierce and restless flood,

Written in iron, weariness, and blood.