Not raining. But feels like a downpour.
Torrent of rain and blood and emotion.
Landing on my back with a sick icky thump.
Crushing me beneath the weight of inebriation, and my morals.
Bullets on a tin roof.
Hail on glass.
And my very being, dragged through the mud in the midst of the storm.
Crushed beneath expectations from society.
And I struggle as hard and as long as I can.
But all I seek, is a ripe old age.
It’s been so long since I felt peace.
My demons watch over me as I flail recklessly in the ocean.
Amidst ancient pottery.
I’m drowning, slowly, bit by bit.
An archaic method in a modern world.
Pressed ever downwards in the storm.
Until ashes are compressed along with dust.
And I’m fossilized with the rest.
A cretin who failed to die properly with his predecessors.
But I’m alive.
I continue to struggle.
What does that make me?
A fable?
A story?
A tale of a man left behind in the churning vortex of history?
The rain presses on, despite my cries for rest.
And I feel compelled to die.
Buried with those who believe the same as I do.
At every step the rain just beats down harder.
Asking me why I think like I do.
I blame my upbringing.
I blame my childhood.
I blame my peers.
But in the end, I cannot justify a reason for this madness.
A madness that will remain until my death.
I wonder if death will even take me.
For the rain calls me faulted.
And I remain in question.
Entirely.
Rain.
