Young Writers Society

My writing, so vague, it catches the eye
a small but clearly written lie-
its heart cold and barren white,
the master of false alibi.

A cactus sitting in the dirt
tear stains on my yellow shirt-
or so, I wish, for by and by,
I've found I posses an inability to cry.

It's sad, I know, but tears don't come
even just a shroud, stout one,
beckoned by my heart's desire
obviously not ranked higher.

An advantage, almost, to stand tall
without a single wavering and small
doubt, but I still have them;
inside I'm screaming and grim.

My tears are invisible, dry on my cheeks,
traveling down air streams, no streaks;
just a remembrance and puffy eyes,
no tears shroud this sullen disguise.

Stone-cold, I stare ahead,
my eyes clench tightly, vision turning red
a difference, between you and I?
I posses an inability to cry.

But still, I sit, and glare at a wall
waiting silently for it all to fall
and I think of how I fell for you;
a single tear ran

down my cheek
off my chin
through the air
on my shoe,

and a smirk developed on my face,
apparently, I can't erase
emotions that have dug deep
are there for my broken heart to keep.

I posses an inability to cry-
on demand.