When you hear a baby crying
And you’ve grown into the age
When you cannot cry in public
It might trigger you to rage
Or declare your thoughts to others
As a well-read baby sage.
The baby, though, is wiser
For it knows the cause of tears:
Every pain is fresh and novel
For its endless early years
And it hasn’t lived to learn yet
To explain away its fears.
When an older person weeps
Knowing well you’ll criticize
Why not pause to beg the question
That’s behind their flowing eyes?
Is it too a swift discomfort
Or perhaps a cruel disguise?
Or perhaps you’re seeing someone
Who, for years, has worn their masks
While they smiled sans seratonin
And pursued their daily tasks.
They have answers for the weeping
But they cry since no one asks.
The Daily Travesty 