I ache for men who cannot cry.
Who, for whatever reason,
bottle their pain in
stiff lipped containers.
Who twist inside,
contort the soft framework
of their souls
so not to let one tear
slip from their eyes
to wash the pain away.
If all the tears that
might have been,
should have been shed
were spilled now,
at once,
we would be awash in waves
of sorrow
and relief.
Poems by Ken 