The Way In Which We Cry

Do we cry to heal ourselves?
Do we cry simply to shed a tear?
Is it because we just can?
Or because that certain person isn't here?

Do we cry for the attention?
Or will we silence every sound?
With hopes of no due reflection,
Of the way in which our heart is bound?

From a tiny kitten,
To the calling of a bird,
Every creature has its cry,
With the hope to be heard.

So when we let out a raking sob,
With a hand cupped so closely to our cheek,
Is our desire to be heard,
Or to just let the pain slowly leak?

Is the point to cry out
For help and warmth and care?
Or is it our body finally breaking down
From so much more pain than it can bear?

Is it the sound of symphonies,
Or of pure pain in liquid form?
Is it truly up to us when we cry,
Or does it happen when we're far too torn?

Is it really up to us?
Do we even have a choice?
We can try to hide it,
Or let it spill with its own voice.

But can we really decide?
Do we hold that power?
Or is it beyond our will,
When we let every tear shed in the shower?

Is it a form of healing?
Or just a sign of the weak?
Is it meant to help us,
Make a final leap?

So much could be said,
For the way in which we cry,
As it could be a simple way,
To motivate ourselves to forever try. 

But whatever the reason,
No matter the cause,
Let it fully heal you,
So you may never have eternal pause.