On those melancholy days, the ones that catalyze tears of sorrow,

I can’t help but grieve for the rain.

I sorrow from their pain, gravel at their reality: a kingdom of light stolen away, replaced by a reality of pain and disgust. 

The whiplash of these fallen angels must burn beyond all expectations. To have one’s world be thrashed apart and replaced by a self-destroying inferno, it must be reserved for calamitous evils, so why have these mislaid raindrops who have been in the wrong place at the wrong time been punished like vile traitors?

With every passing second I tense as the rain rages on. Every second, unfathomable amounts of futures are thieved; thousands of droplets are consumed by vegetation, held captive without the slightest consideration of their will. Millions of angels are cast into rivers, consumed by their fellow succubus – as if this was their final and recurring laugh-in-the-face for the life they lived.

As I watch the rain surround me I can’t help but grimace in the pain of the fallen.

As their lives crash into the pavement and collect into bunches of broken souls. My heart yearns – exclaims- for an explanation, a shred of regret from their creator, anything that could change the ongoing parade of lost souls.

Why must these victims serve undeserved punishment when millions of their brethren descend the heavens as graceful saints? Coated in white and embroidered with rich patterns, snowflakes are the dream for water droplets, as in this state, they are closer to royalty than an element. In their winter coat, these droplets descend into Earth so graciously that the whiplash alone is a taunt to the suffering of its meek brethren. Then, as if fate didn’t pass a harsh enough punishment, these saints accumulate and smother the wandering souls of their kind. As the rivers freeze, the supposed saints can’t help but pile around the gates of hell, barely poking their heads into the life of the unfortunate.

And eventually, when the water droplets evaporate, the only thing awaiting them is the home that abandoned them. This eternal cycle of reincarnation eats away at my being, I just can’t understand why – why must there be such a cruel reality with no chance at Nirvana?

_______________________

I hate being here

amongst the heaping dead, I can’t think,

I’m just a bird being tempted into becoming a vulture

And as tempting as it might be to gain off of this inevitable calamity, I can’t,

I will not let go of compassion which separates me from the blissful beasts.

I’ve been feeling empty lately.

I can’t help but feel like a shell of myself.

When I look at what I promised and what I delivered, I can’t help but be disgusted.

I feel myself as a roach barely scurrying in between the rage of others. 

I detest my expectations which have set me on this path.

I violently want to rid myself of the hope of being praised and heavily loved.

I’ve gotten to the point where congratulations feel like an addiction, 

fading, 

desperate,

and unnatural.

I hate what I’ve done to myself, and I loathe my hope for brighter days. I am disgusted by how static my behaviors become when I dream of greener pastures. Restarting the negative feedback cycle, I become a ghost in my own machine,

a victim of my coping mechanism.

I despise how simple it is to become a lucid dreamer within my illusions. I hate how I trust myself with my whole heart, only to embrace myself in a way I foresaw.

It’s a tragedy how even when I don’t destroy myself, any little thing can set me off. It can be the admiration of another and not me, it can be the misspelling of my name, even the absence of people sitting around me is enough to kick start my dysfunctional views.

I despise who I am, 

I live in frustration knowing I’m a good person,

I hate knowing that others might get hurt as I learn to understand what I innately do.

I’m sorry for muddying the lovely environments that have let me in and accepted me.