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Tears

They hide in your soul as silent walls
They hide your soul in silent waterfalls
They trickle your cheeks with the weight of worlds
They weigh on your soul like liquid bricks
They burn at your life as if molten love
They melt your love leaving cinders of life
They mourn your life like the child who lost his mother
They lose your inner child in their torrent stream
They rend with a deft softness which may never be revealed
They reveal isolation and loneliness
They abandon your body with every pang of love
They erupt from a wellspring which appears never-ending
They represent the true fountain of youth
For when they cease completely, you’ve died inside

Millions of droplets
Their proverbial rivers
Melancholy
Heartache
Betrayal
Loneliness
Loss
Love
Depression
Anger

Do not speak of joy and laughter
Those tears’ conception share the same roots
They heal only in that once they’ve run their course
They leave you drawn and quartered but in less distress
They live private lives even when seen
They haunt your soul
They cleanse like benevolent acid
They bear more weight than Atlas could bear

All in the name of life

 

Interesting side note here (or would that be “bottom” note due to its physical location on the page). I just reread my post from August 8th, 2012 titled “Segue to a Poem.” A lot was going on at that time. I was horrifically unhappy in a horrible 23 year marriage. In just a couple days, my seven-year-old daughter would be kidnapped, yet writing still buoyed me and kept me going.

In this post from nearly 8 years ago, I mentioned that the words demanded to come out that day. Today, I’m sitting in the living room, ready to get up and go to bed when I became overwhelmed with the need to cry words out of my fingers. Tears do not always come out of our eyes. (Wish I’d included THAT in the poem – LOL!)

So much sadness in life. I know, I know, Pollyanna’s want me to remember the “up” times of life, almost as though acknowledging the sadness of life is emotional leprosy. I believe addressing it is healthier. Whether anyone else feels the same is irrelevant. At times I feel I will never write again – a sure sign I will be writing again soon.

I hope someday, someone stumbles over my poetic works and recognizes the body of writing as something worthwhile. I do have a small following, not the least is my dearest friend and love, Ayesha. While i struggle with making statements about the quality of my writing, I do know most of what I write bleeds from power and that power is my soul.

I believe I possess a powerful soul, and by proxy, I write with emotional power. Writers enjoy being recognized for their work. Sad that most of us die in obscurity. Yet, in the end, these moments behind the keyboard/pen/pencil/hieroglyphics, define the word priceless. For, no matter what the world may or may not know of my writing, I know I craft my soul on these and many other pages.

I know each writing is a snapshot of who I was at that very instant in life. I know that something of me lives on. I suppose if no one ever sees the writing and it all dies a digital death along with my corporeal death the argument may be made that the writing did not live on, but I believe it does because I released all this from within.

Like the conundrum of “if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound,” if a poet writes thousands of poems as have I and no one reads them throughout the ages, do the words hold any meaning? For me, the answer is yes, because I write for me first. I purge myself so that I may move on with my life. That someone else would connect with the words and concepts presented means the world to me, possibly even my life.

If you are still reading, all I can say is the most heart-felt thank you I am humanly capable of giving. 🙂