Becalled? Bemoaned? Beset? A call of silence plays in
They ask me, Who am I as a daughter? The storm rages from within.
Oh, you must be obedient like your mother, they wonder to think,
In their whims and fancies, I would offer perfectionism in softness for them to drink.

Maybe you are the beauty who stands quietly behind a man!
A daughter who would be the calling of the virtuous dawn of the sinking clan
Alas, they don't know who I belie to be at my core,
My rage lies underneath the calm waters, the ones that are unafraid to wage the shore.

I am not the contradiction,
I am the equation of softness and atrocity in the amalgamation that churns
One that embraces you in the softness of love and,
If disrespected, she knows how easily she can make the world burn.

I am the glory and I am the gory,
For I firmly stand that respect for oldness in our blood doesn't run,
If you can emit venom from your gateway of syllables,
Be ready to listen because respect is something that one earns.

I am my father's rage and my mother’s diplomacy,
One who knows how to keep her calm and yet stand tall,
To wage wars, looking eye to eye at a man’s fragile ego,
Proud to be who she is and not wary of the fall.

Mannerisms and culture are a gendered weapon often used to bind a daughter’s wings,
To their dismay, I am the daughter who breaks every ceiling, and with rebellion, my heart sings.

Often asked, 'What kind of daughter am I?'
I smile and say, I am the daughter who is too passionate to submit,
Too powerful to stand quietly on the sides,
With brimming rage and outrageous ambition,
I am the wildfire that radiates with a beckoning light too blazing to hide.

The one who cannot be caged,
The daughter who breaks the generational curses and becomes free,
The daughter who loves herself gallantly and loudly, knowing she can become anything she yearns to be.

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