The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


23. Streetcars

The rain in the early morning’s sky

Forced me to become a slave to myself

And lift my duvet over my head again.

The thumping of my heartbeat

Began to match the pitter-pattering

Of the rain against my window.

The subtle coldness of a draft

Leaked in under the once comforting

Covers I had buried myself under,

And again, I told myself to go back to bed.

In reality, I was overslept and misread,

And a thousand words echoed in my mind

As it had lazily tried to reassemble

Every thought I could not fathom.

Every morning, this same cycle is repeated.

All along, I’ve been trying to escape

This terrible reality I’ve called my life.

Previous nights I’ve spent silently

Staring into the midnight air of unknown.

The drone of streetcars and people talking

Has manipulated my mind into thinking

That listening and staring is all I am good for.

I walk by many people on the streets everyday,

And occasionally I’ll spot the bravest looking person

In the sea of people, and when I look into their eyes,

I can see every thought that they hold back.

I’ve come to realise that there are many people

That are exactly like me.

The ones who haven’t a reason to rise in the morning,

The ones who can’t fathom their thoughts,

The ones who listen and stare silently,

And the ones who see it all in everybody else.

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