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.