As immeasurable pain touches my soul I cry out from the dark and lonely abyss. My thoughts are plagued with grief as sorrow takes hold and paralyzes my will. I have sought peace only to find war; I have sought love only to find hate; I have sought sunshine only to find gray skies and thunderous rain. In cold desolation I lie still as the freezing winds of fear and desperation take my warmth from me. Season by season I grow weaker as I contend with the harsh realities of my wretched existence. I awake to melancholy and go to sleep in persistent anxiety. Who will hear the cries of the sufferers? Pain is a deep and festering wound that leads to infection and sepsis of the soul. It eats away at happiness and contentment slowly and methodically until there is nothing left. The cries and wailing of the sufferers echo throughout, as a sad song is played. Crows gather on a ledge and stare as they bear witness to the mire. The sufferers stumble around in zombie like state as they try to find their way. The road to happiness and freedom seems to allude them, but they walk nonetheless. Their plight would bring tears even to the strongest and most powerful of men. To gaze upon them, is to gaze upon perpetual suffering. To look into their red and weary eyes, is to look into their souls. Souls of deep pain and sorrow. The story of their once joyful lives are now haunting memories of the past. Still, there is a light of hope every time someone stops and listens to their story while giving words of comfort and love.
Tag: tears
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In passionate love
Her heart abides,
For she has
Been through pain;
Many late nights
With tears in her eyes;
In her suffering
She has found strength,
As somber eyes
Look toward the skies;
She prays for healing,
And hopes that heaven
Will hear her cries. -
The cries and tears of the children spill and flow into the rivers and streams; the ocean rises and her waves are lifted up in anger with the tears of my people. The blood and tears are mixed and infused into the lakes and bayous. The waters are perpetually restless and troubled by the souls and spirits of they that shed their blood and were oppressed. The eyes that glow in the night and the creatures of the water hear the loud cries of the souls and the pain in their voices. They cry out for vengeance, and they scream for justice. They weep for remembrance. The earth underneath is shaken and moves violently. Tears ripple through the waters with lightning speed and the soil is saturated with blood.
In the deep dark of night everything is suddenly again quiet. The creepy crawlers of the night and they that dwell in the deep midst of the lakes and bayous are afraid and tense with anticipation. For they have witnessed the injustices; they have witnessed the generations of they that have suffered and have bled, and have shed tears, and have been tortured, and have cried out to God, and have been beaten, and have been broken, and have been enslaved, and have been raped, and have been trodden, and have been unloved. On the banks of the rivers and lakes; the streams and the bayous; stand the ghosts of my people. Eyes fierce, wide and illuminated; They line up side by side in tattered rags. Their wounds show and bear witness to their past lives. Their blood is dried on them. They line up. The elders and the ones with gray hair. The men and the women. The young ones. Hand in hand they line up, and in silence they look on. The children hold the hands of their mothers; the mothers hold the hands of their men; the men hold the hands of the elders and they look on.
Blood sheds from old wounds and tears begin to flow from wide illuminated eyes, but they show no emotion. In silence and in the dark of night they look on. My heart is dismayed by the pain of my people; my eyes, red and sodden with heavy sorrows. As if in a dream, I stretch forth my arms. The moonlight reflects on the dark waters; Polaris shines bright in the night’s sky. They beckon me to come forward, and I oblige as I slowly approach. My people, with bare feet, tattered rags, thick scars on backs, deep wounds, tears flowing from eyes and faces emotionless, stretch forth their arms. The old and the young; the little children, stretch forth their arms to embrace me. In their embrace I am overcome. My God, I am overcome with emotion. Each one begin to whisper closely in my ear the story of their life and pain. The whispers grow louder and I am caught in a whirlwind of their voices; they take me to the places of their deepest suffering and to the places where they wept.
My whole being is shattered by the reality of their past existence. I stand silent. My spirit is filled with fury and sorrow. A potent mix that boils and stirs fire within me. What am I to do? The generation of tears have flown and permeated the earth. What once grew here no longer grows. Their pain and rage have impregnated her and she is vexed by the plight and the affliction of them. The earth will not be moved. She will not forgive. she will not give up her stores and she will not yield her crops; the tobacco; the sugarcane; the cotton will all wither and die. The trees where my people were hanged have shed their leaves. Their roots are rotten and their once sweet fruit have turned bitter. The bumbled bee and the honeybee will not pollinate. The flowers and the once green grass is brown, scorched and sparse. Innocent blood has been shed here. Tears have fallen here. Enough to crack the dams and flow out violently into the vast rivers and oceans.
My people, my precious people; I love them. They peacefully fade away back to their place of rest, where there is no sorrow. One by one they go back to tranquility. I am left alone to bear witness. I scream out with all the air in my lungs and with every fiber of my being: You will be avenged! You are redeemed! With ghostly eyes they turn back and look; in haunted voices, my people whisper: Remember us; remember us.
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He has been through so much pain. In darkness and loneliness he sits and keeps his hurt inside. He is a child and he deserves love and protection, but he has been victimized and unloved.
She sits with a bruised body and a face of sorrow. Time and time again she is abused by the hands of the man who claims to love her. She suffers in lonely silence.
In a room he lies on his bed, unable to move; unable to function. Mental illness wreaks havoc on his mind and he has lost all hope. He had lost his family due to his illness and is now living in hell and torment.
She was a joyous and happy woman. A wonderful mother and beautiful wife. She now is seen in dark places, and her face of beauty has now turned into a face of weariness and hard life. She has fallen victim to the scourge of addiction and the dark streets feed on her soul. She has nothing left but the faint memory of her children. She cries inside but she cannot break the power of addiction that now rules over her.
Who will cry for these souls?
Who will cry for the weary?
Who will cry for the oppressed?
Who will cry for the abused?
Who will cry for the tormented?
Who will cry for the sick and ill?
Who will cry for the addicted?
Who will cry for those with no voice?
Who will cry for the afflicted?
Who will cry for the precious children?
Who will cry for the unloved?
I will cry for them because no one will hear their plea. I will cry for them because they are deserved of love. I will cry for them because I hear their cries. I will cry for them because they have no more tears to give. I will cry for them because they cannot cry for themselves. I will weep for them because I love them.
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A child stares out of an open window. Tears stream down his face. Pictures of his mother lay on the floor. He has lost her. She has passed away. The boy was told of his mother’s joyous spirit, her personality and the way she was. He was told by her friends and family how happy she was to have given birth to her one and only son. Yet, he can’t remember her face and her warmth; he can’t remember her touch and the love only a mother could give. He clutches a picture of her and holds it to his chest; he kisses her. He scours his mind for the memory of her, at least one precious moment. He finds none. If only he could remember the sound of her voice and her laughter. If only he could remember her bright smile. He closes his teary eyes tightly, and tries even harder to remember her, but there is no memory of their time together. With his eyes closed, the remnant of his tears fall onto the photos of his mother. He opens his eyes and looks at her pictures intently. Mommy I love you, he says. He will carry her in his heart forever. A heartbroken child stares out of an open window. The cold winter wind touches his face. He hopes his mother can see him; he hopes his mother can hear him.
Intimate Compositions 