The older you get, the less you cry;
For the pain has become persistent,
And your tear wells can only spring so much.
The hollow in your soul deepens,
And what should be your wails,
Comes out as echoing silence,
That only you can hear, repeatedly.
You are not to forget the bitterness that life offers,
For there are constant reminders.
They come in forms of woe, affliction, mourning;
And you will bear them all until you cannot anymore.
But even then you bear them still,
As they pile on your collapsed form.
The older you get, the less you cry;
For tears are for special occasions,
And should be saved up in bits and pieces.
The grief in your heart expands,
And the part of you that should know love and joy,
Is murdered by your own self,
And then by others, time and time again.
