Joe Meno Quotes

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.

My tears are buried in my heart, like cave-locked fountains sleeping.

Hurt that's not supposed to show, and tears that fall when no one knows.

They are the silent griefs which cut the heart-strings.

Thank you for this, Peter. For dry eyes and silent weeping. You taught me how to hide anything i felt. More than ever, i need that now.

There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer --committed to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.

I mean, to me, freaking out is different. More of a running away, not telling anyone what's wrong, slowly simmering until you burst kind of thing.

The greatest griefs are silent.

It is those who make the least display of their sorrow who mourn the deepest.

A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet or relief, In word, or sigh, or tear.

In the first place, [his eyes] never laughed when he laughed. Have you ever noticed this peculiarity some people have? It is either the sign of an evil nature or of a profound and lasting sorrow.

Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear

Prayer unfolds in the stillness of the soul.

You must be willing to accept the fact that pain is a part of the process of revelation.

Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing. It's nothing. Just sad dreams. Or something like that...Swing low in your weep ship, with your tear scans and sob probes, and you would mark them. Women--and they can be wives, lovers, gaunt muses, fat nurses, obsessions, devourers, exes, nemeses--will wake and turn to these men and ask, with female need-to-know, "What is it?" And the men will say, "Nothing. No it isn't anything really. Just sad dreams.

What do I haveto help me, without spell or prayer,endure this hour, endless, heartless, anonymous,the death of love?

The quiet sense of something lost

Many men nourish a pride which urges them to conceal their struggles and show themselves only as conquerors.

I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. You hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

...the heart has no tears to give,--it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.

Even though it hurt, there are kinds of pain you couldn't speak out loud.