Sometimes when I'm alone I cry, Cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm. They flow with life but take no form I Cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friend, But who do you know that stops that long, To help another carry on. The world moves fast and it would rather pass by. Then to stop and see what makes one cry, So painful and sad. And sometimes... I cry And no one cares about why. (I cry, Tupac Shakur) He's sitting in his room, staring at his sheets. Smoothing them over with his delicate hands of a young boy, he smiles and touches his face. Turning around, he sees himself in the mirror. He's beautiful, of course, with his ever present charm and the smile he makes sure he wears everyday like a piece of jewelry. He adjusts it and he makes it perfect so that everyone can adore. And they do, because his name is bold, and his heart and soul is always so free and true, according to the eyes of a stranger. But when he takes a glimpse in the sideways mirror, he realizes that his soft hands are gracing the rough face of a grown man. He's scared because he doesn't remember if he's a boy or a man. To him, it is all the same. He has been accustomed to schedules and set times and rules. He doesn't understand flowing like a river, because he falls like organized grace. He doesn't know what it's like to just be himself, because he doesn't understand exactly who he is. He remembers his name, he remembers his hand, he remembers his heart, but he forgets his face and he forgets his soul. If only he had sometime to reveal his secrets to, maybe he wouldn't be like this, but there was no one. They had all disappeared when he went away. I know he's a good man because he's genuine, but he just doesn't remember what it's like to be genuine so he doesn't show it much. But I see it at seldom times and I enjoy his real smiles and his real gestures toward me to symbolize his untouched heart, my favorite part of him. It didn't matter exactly what happened to him, his heart was always the same as before. In his heart, he was 14 years old again, licking an ice cream cone. But now, I wonder exactly what he's thinking of in that little mind of his and I wonder if his heart has changed any. He had become considerably weaker, perhaps his heart has too. But when he continues to stare into the depths of his heart through the cheap glass, I just decide to let my thoughts wander elsewhere. Cocking his head to the side, he realizes that this mirror has been crooked ever since his soul was lost. So he closes the door and let's the first real thing in years to escape his grasp. It slides down his rough cheeks and touches his dirty lips. But when his hands reach for it, he feels the tear of hope slide down his pale palms. |