It's a feeling,
that ends underneath the eyes,
and I couldn't tell you its beginning,
but ultimately it's called crying

kind of like skin that's torn,
maybe what you imagine,
if you picture a wooden shack,
pillaged, strewn about,
now make it beloved,
it's grandma's, or love
however you shape it

the teardrops seem to have only one way,
but don't dismiss them
they are varied

some come buried,
others help you drown,
some accompanied by a sound,
some fill the town, and others follow
only a silent frown

but you can smile too, when those dastardly things
are coming down.