a poem on being sad



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.