Want To See Me Cry - Here Goes

So what do you think it would take to make A poor poet, a man past his prime, for sure, Cry, for long opaque reservoirs of mineral salts To spill at last? Not all that much I hear you say, (Who stereotypes so easily), though I fear you're right, For feelings bottled tight from childhood, most men Keep inside, but unlike Old Faithful, sometimes "Cold Fusion" is to blame, an internal rock slide fracked loose, By injected pain, squeezes what was never meant to see The light of day, suddenly, through liquified rock, As if to prove to all that feelings denied are like God And the only thing about a real poet that lasts are Stalactites growing in some hidden chamber of the heart. Long Tooth April 7, 2018