Tears have been like rain enough—
Like diamonds, rivers, stars—
So much
That I can’t help
Question the pain
That made a poet say
Tears are Rain.
What was the trigger
That once produced
Rain?
What was the wrong that reduced
A wordsmith to rain?
My tears are bees,
stinging in my eyes;
They’re poison, scorching;
fire,
Burning;
Knives, carving.
My heart
Complains of tears
like water,
But it’s wrong.
I've learned
Eyes are subtle volcanoes
Waiting,
dormant,
beside the nose;
Tears are magma,
flowing,
flaring;
That while eyes tear,
They’re tearing
Down your cheeks—
with pain begot
from pain.
I think, though,
I forgot those
Tears that are
“like rain.”
Sometimes,
they are the same,
But rather rain is more like crying:
Our pain is fluid;
our happy, dying;
Yet through the sad,
I think—I know—
That when they’re gone,
I grow.
