Tears are the mirrors in which we see our pain
Souls that have been broken
Souls suffering so much melancholy they overflow
Rivers of regret pour out
Liquid memories of remorse
Is there no other outlet
Why do the floodgates always cave
We choke it down and drink it out
But the memories are still there
Gnawing and tearing at our being
What would our soul look like if it was to solidify
Would they be covered in stiches
Maybe a patch work sown together with lies
The seams will tear and stretch
The cloth will become worn and need replacing
How do we heal rather than patch our souls
Maybe there is no way to heal
We are our own Frankenstein monster
We become bodies of shoddy patchwork and hurried stitches.