What Did You Write That Will Make Me Weep?

What did you write that will make me weep?

Cry has many nuances of ‘mimicry', but all real cries stay the course of the soul. A gentle cry at something beautiful occurring may be a weep. A large tear in one eye for an old pet, as well. Some episodes of crying are intense as in a lamenting or lamentation. The solace is to one's element , affecting his essence, and may be called a shameless bawl. Unrestrained , it is a wail in your personal ocean, one you share by facet of a crystal of boundless breadth and wordless exegesis. Heart like a bass drum. A caterwauling of beg and scorn. Great tears of joy may occur watching your child being delivered Cesarian, as if on a Martian landscape red with life. The newness is moving and the cry is a lament. Choking sobs are a recoil of a wave of shock and play out the expression of a grief if ever there is a vital common to the experience of the sorely sad of immense loss or overwhelming feeling. There is a cry that emanates thr carrying of souls of support. One finds himself shrunken by the human person, smaller than death, a realized dream that squeaks you by, enough confidence to keep from being taken, enough sorrow not to be mistaken of the sadness felt by others. It may come by your value to others, or their unique value to you. These ought be shared , for loving sentiments of a strong heart renew strength in cry and prayer, a reason to compose emotional upwelling to a tremendous outpouring of the energy of human spirit, tears streaming and smile beaming. Then there is the suffering of the cry, inconsolable, disconsolate, perplexed, of desuetude, the intractable. A desultory state of human industry. Disdain here is pain and care meets scare, anger, and revolt, disgust, distaste, a to lick, be licked ,and learned to likemournful state of tenantcy. Sadness and shame are in the sorrow , and in pain one need not restrain one's awe to delight in a time of the sharing of sorrows We steam in stains of salt with pure water, like snakes in our hair and pillars of the caught in community. The labyrinthine canvasses and the amaranthine condigns. We are strengthened of the dark sanguine curdling of blood we did not lose and it cries us out in a remuneration of a beacon for the once amiss. It is poor me to cry from powering a kiss. A cry may have a cistern and apall Try the cry until dry. A wail of world is fit of the wonder, not whimper or whine. Consign sorrow to a post of vigilance and welcome the unwelcome there. Grief does not need to teach, it needs a green field.