Inconvenient Tears

How true are the tears of inconvenience

that appear not wanting to be known, but wishing to hide

Why do I not see these tears and come running?

As if I am the one who cries?

These tears are wounds that bleed which no one dresses,

their stain is barely visible, but trails beneath the eyes

The trail glistens in the light, showing itself for a brief moment,

then silently sticks, sinking into the skin as a disguise

Why do I run when I hear the sound of wailing?

Why does my heart not open up,

with compassion,

for tears I have also cried?

And what about the tears I have not?

Should I not stop and comfort these tears too?

Is it not the same sun which produces 

tears from the eyes who stare too long at its gleam?

May it be this same sun which enlightens the impure glasses in which I look through

May the scratches and flaws of each glass reveal the inner-workings of my pride

May they reveal the consequences of the blindness,

to untouched tears which have been cried 

It is pride and inconvenience itself,

intermingled by the smallest of fears

Which keep me from stopping to stare

into the eyes who cry

the truest of tears