You see…

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.


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