My tears are like small feet
Running down my face in speed
I always cry quietly this us a tradition
I hush myself and my little feet. Run quietly
I always mumble Never do I want to be heard
This is tradition that I hide away some where
Closed so that if my lips part the murmurs are not
Heard from outside ears that only understand laughter
So I keep my small steps in napkins and ball them up from
Site Because the running of tears is a secret tradition that only I can be present in.