but if you scrutinise my words,
you will see the dry tears
and hear the hurtling screams of anguish.
You will see the bloody snort right where failure punched me on my face.
They say men don’t cry,
but if you carefully read my face,
you will notice the dry tears
Painting a stream of
All the salty water excreted
When my heart was torn
And grinded into atom sized particles.
They say a man doesn’t cry,
but I am not just a man:
I am a troubled man;
Whose emotional scars are
Perceived by the blind.
A troubled man,
Whose inner cries are
Heard by the ears of the deaf.
They Say Men don’t cry.
It is mind blowing how one’s absence can be painfully felt.
This time it was my nephew’s. He left me feeling dreary;
I felt sadness flowing through my heart’s arteries at high speed.
I was surprised as to how a young baby’s absence can leave a space million times his being.
I instantly missed him as he bid me farewell:
He was sad to leave, I was sadder.
I wondered if that’s how good memories are made- Out of mixed emotions:
After the good time’s gone, when you look back with a wistful smile, wishing to go aback.
I kept seeing his face and hearing his voice: his presence I yearned,
I watched videos that we took at the park, except they seemed to enhance the nostalgia,
If there’s one thing I learnt a lot is that: One can neither preserve nor hoard moments.
I figured that: the more blissful the moments are, the more shattering the longing becomes.
I believe it now; time does fly when you are having fun.