My teardrops don't flow from bloodshot eyes
down angry red cheeks
staining yellowed pillowcases
black with sorrow.

Collected in a leaky pen
with rusty metal cap,
they form words on
crumpled notebook paper.

Silent cries
build T’s that don't cross
and from the womb of weeping winds
come forth Y’s that curve at their tail.

bleeding heart, whose
tears dissipate with that of a child's day time fury.
But bleeding scripture,
is quick to injure
as it weeps its words
forever and eternity.