I’ve been sick, the family has been sick, plus a million other things have been going on. So, what’s a writer to do? Write a poem! Okay, I really just dredged up a poem I wrote a long time ago and edited it. It’s perfectly dreary, fitting my current mood (well, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but let’s just go with it).

So, without further ado, here’s my paltry contribution to National Poetry Month (which is always in April, BTW)…

Still I Cry

It’s raining now…
The drops are falling
hard and fast.
I slip out into the storm
to escape.

I feel its coolness
on my burning skin
and embrace it
with everything I have.

Better out here
than in there
with the others.

Still it rains…
and still I cry.

The sky’s cold tears
mix with my hot ones
and I am defeated.

I turn and walk away
through the clouds
into a world
where I can watch
-just out of reach-
the graceful silhouettes,
and nothing more.

Life seems but a hazy shadow.
Someday I’ll be blown away
like leaves in the wind
on a cold, hollow day.

Still it rains…
and still I cry.

Dreams dance in my mind
like the elusive fey
And I wonder
how to catch them,
become a part of them.

Like an aged woman
I soon realize
the images are slippery
like good memories.
They are not for me.

It does not matter
to them
what I feel
So I wonder,
do I matter?

Still it rains…
and still I cry.

I wish someone
would take my hand
and comfort me
as I stand in the pouring rain
looking in.

I am so weak.
I mourn my life
even as I live it.

I just want to fit in.
But I can’t quite
find the key.

I turn to go,
giving up.
Why try?
Nothing ever changes.

Still it rains…
and still I cry.


That is the original ending. Here’s what I add today, after a little living has infused me with some wisdom…

Years of solitude
have taught me
something I wish
I’d known back then…

It was I
who created the rain…
It was I
who chose to cry.