Tears, don't just well up in your lower eyelid. . . First, there will be a radiating pain searing from the crevice of wilted lungs - perhaps it is the rawest cries, softly protesting that it ought to hang on museum walls, you remain in rusted frames. Try as your might takes you; the voice shadows itself still like sunsets sinking when reality meets 6pm, because at every other hour depression crawls from the bottom of your gullet inching its way up to choke you, to make you speechless of your every indignance. Directional voices of diamond headed vengeance coalesce into a careless cacophony as space meets resonance meets resonance meets resonance whipping wounds along corridors till lips ache upon glass words weighing down the hook on bleeding, museum walls. Insults become your only visitor carrying mirrored rifles even after the closing hours it still cackles at your mistake, pokes at its weak defense and converts the empty it finds into a greater futility between the hurt\ and it's only \comfort. Then the very last aims for your eyes not the iris or the cornea but the tear gland that holds pure sadness in an unprotected thin membrane so it gives way like a needle meets a balloon, bursting out violently all the liquid no one called for leaking itself onto the lower eyelid as nature gives way to blinking. A face of what had seemed strong, now fails. this is what it feels like before you cry.