(six months. writing doesn flow as smoothly. tried it nevertheless)
Rumi said to me, “Cry, cry wholeheartedly my friend.”
I forced and hurt and pinched myself,
My eyes remained still.
I can’t cry.
I pressed and strained to weep.
Fucked bastards, abused friends,
Cut wrists,
What followed is more numbness and no floods.
Quit work, talked to God.
Films that screamt daddy issues,
Fell in love and broke my heart,
Nonsensical, not a distant cry to save my life!
Then I said crying is overrated,
I mocked at weepers,
Ignored ill fated,
And secretly envied them.
Left a lot of hands I held once fondly,
Watched the sun set religiously,
Wrote, wrote and wrote some more.
Not a tear to spare.
I wait now in a chamber
Scared of closed dark places
Unable to breathe
And unable to cry for help.
I asked Rumi, “Can I have the time? My head’s stopped”
He said, “Be patient to what pains you.”
“How long?” said I.
“So long” he says, “Until you cry again...”
