I was a teardrop.

I remember falling down the faces of the sad, deprived, hungered, and angry.

I heard the weeping of pain.

I saw the way I was gazed upon by strong people.

I worried I would never be the reason someone was happy.

I thought I was always going to be the cause of sadness.

But, I want to

I am a cry of joy.

I think we see only what we expect to see.

I need to believe I've drifted from the souls of emptiness.

I try to fall gently, hot, soothing, before I collide with the ground.

I feel I needed to live the life of the pessimistic before I could enhance the lives of the optimistic.

I forgive the sad, deprived, hungered, and angered. 

Now I can

I will encourage the despondent.

I choose to be sophisticated in a way French can only describe as la pluie.

I dream about cleansing the eyes whom only seen the dark side of the moon. 

I hope the minds eye will portray my existence as merely a substance a lucid emotion can evanesce.

I predict this teardrops reflection will be perceived through eyes of the world's downcasts. Consciously. Carefully. 

I know the faces of the sad, deprived, hungered, and angered.

I will