The tears rolled down my face,
This isn't the first time.
I’m used to this
I stand in the in the streets, hopelessly, looking for help.
People walk by, pointing and staring.
They call me the weeping women.
My eyes are all swollen and red.
No more tears will come out.
I reach down for my handkerchief to dry my wet face,
But, I could not dry my damp face,
It was covered in paint.
The paint was blue.
Representing my tears, my pain, and my sadness.
My face became so scratchy.
I began to itch, but the pain was burning
My whole face was pealing off.
They continue to point and stare.
Their laughter is growing and echoing in my ear.
I begin to cry harder and harder.
The paint pours out of my swollen red eyes.
For I am the weeping women.