My Soul Is Crying And I Am Not Poem by Lenny Camacho

My soul is crying and I am not.

How is this possible?
Lights are on
which can only mean
there's still hope:
in which direction is the spear
pointed?
Save the heart, and
a bit of intelligence.
Nothing good comes from
dying suddenly,
the way a lightining does,
most times.

When I run, I run for my life.
Not that I am in a hurry.
I rarely am.
Alive I mean.

There were two things
(only two?)
that used to move me more
than life itself:
her eyes, how she looked at me
and smiled with a spark;
and my sadness,
how my eyes reflected
on the emptiness I've felt.

My soul is crying, but I am not.

That leaves me more questions than answers.