The poet weeps
She has her own way of crying,
Her tears fall in her words,
Sometime she feels them flying,
Like the soulful songs of the birds,
Some people's tears are salted,
As they fall on the cheeks,
Her tears are in the pen,
She writes what she weeps.
She cries the words of her heart,
Her tears come from out of her soul.
She writes quietly in the dark,
Of tears that never show.
A poet's tears fall,
Where they may not be heard.
With a pen she cries,
Each tear becomes the word.
She has her own way,
Of healing her broken heart.
The words come so easy in the dark.
Some people cry salted tears,
As they run down the cheeks,
Words are the tears,
That the poet weeps.