no reason, no wound; a sadness seen whereas no one could

i speak in prose, in poetry and woes
every wake, a tear, a fear, a wear, aware--"don't worry mom, I'm on my toes."
every step i take, every move I make; same goes for my foes
in my head they are, in my mind they fare, the conundrum abodes.

they say ah, july and june,
september and moon
the moods the lunes,
the sadness in tune
in times of darkness,
they’ve got a reason in bloom
belladona in wound,
but I, here have I; not a life’s boon
born to a silver in spoon,
yet cursed to lay tears for what feels like milleniums.