Tears are the mirrors in which we see our pain

Souls that have been broken

Souls suffering so much melancholy they overflow

Rivers of regret pour out

Liquid memories of remorse

Is there no other outlet

Why do the floodgates always cave

We choke it down and drink it out

But the memories are still there

Gnawing and tearing at our being

What would our soul look like if it was to solidify

Would they be covered in stiches

Maybe a patch work sown together with lies

The seams will tear and stretch

The cloth will become worn and need replacing

How do we heal rather than patch our souls

Maybe there is no way to heal

We are our own Frankenstein monster

We become bodies of shoddy patchwork and hurried stitches.