The Eyes

They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
If that’s so, you should get a flashlight
before venturing into the somber shadows
of mine, my soul so murky,
so neglected, so unfed.

My eyes glassy
with nearly a lifetime
of unshed tears,
of tremulous fear,
I look around everywhere
until, finally, running out of direction,
I reluctantly -
begrudgingly -
settle uneasily on myself in the mirror,
and I am immediately hit,
bludgeoned,
violently by a raging tsunami wave of sadness
heavy and hard,
particularly when I realize that my own eyes
were, undoubtedly, reflecting back -
unflinchingly mirroring -
that same profound and unwavering emotion
of unparalleled guilt,
complete with a hefty dose of shame
and inadequacy.
Quickly, I turned, cringing, away,
unable to tolerate fate’s cruel spectacle any longer.

The Eyes

Finally, acting with desperation and strength,
I plaster on a smile,
hoping that it doesn’t come across
as pained and saddened as it feels,
and knowing that it doesn’t reach
my cold, dead eyes,
because I was born
with this poker face -
the unreadable one,
the one that gives away nothing,
the one on which I so heavily rely -
especially in times of grief and sorrow
when my big brown eyes
feel such incredible agony
just carrying on,
using that strength you once said you saw
in my eyes

Eventually, I will drop the insincere, saccharine smile,
and sadly, stare up,
skyward,
towards the universe divine,
momentarily reveling in the fact
that we are all stardust -
that is what we came from
and what we will, ultimately, return to -
and I will briefly know joy and contentment,
leaving me brimming, erupting, overflowing
with a stolen inner peace.

The Eyes

I feel the knitted knot
between my eyes loosen,
as I brace myself to turn
and face my dark past
and fret over my seemingly gloomy future.
Meanwhile, my eyes
hold the secrets that I keep so goddamn deep.

I wonder, for one brief moment,
how to permanently bring that joyful light
back to my dying eyes,
but then I quickly push that marvelous thought aside,
saving it for a day without ominous storm clouds
slowly roiling in off the fearful horizon,
choosing instead to focus on my grief, my fury,
turning it, my window to my soul,
back to the anguish, the bereavement -
the loss, the suffering that my eyes -
those open, uncloseable windows to my soul,
know so well,
that I learned to hide at far too young an age.
Then I look inward to mentally trace the vast expanse of emotional scar tissue,
knowing that me eyes,
those windows to my soul
have learned to art of illusion,
and can fake happiness wonderfully,

The Eyes

Today, though, my eyes are not acting,
but wallowing in melancholy despair,
and in guilt,
and in self-loathing,
as I visit a long-ignored grave
where, alone at the cemetery,
I let those ghosts see through to my soul
through unreserved, unfiltered eyes
shining bright with tears.