You see, all others have their tears to cry.
But tears are scarce to me as desert rain.
And thus I seek more outlets for my pain—
Though words cannot replace the wetting of the eye,
My hurt is soothed—and it is thus that I
Receive respite. Or else I’ll go insane:
Then act much worse—and suffer hurt again,
To be relieved through e’er more tearless sighs.
Perhaps my crying is a thing of time.
For now, I set my sadnesses in rhyme,
And wait for tears to come with greater age.
I hope that I still feel—my blood still flows,
My heart still beats, but no one ever knows
When o’erdue tears will start to disengage.