What is, and what isn’t

I hear the rain pour down from the dark January sky,
but I haven’t felt the rain, I have only heard her echoes through the walls
And I’m writing without connection to the world,
I am lost, but not quite gone

I think of the people who are outside,
some are wet, while others have umbrellas.

I am not wet, because I stay indoors
I don’t own an umbrella, because I plan to stay indoors.

I hear cars roar past my house as they splash the puddles,
The water drenches a passer-by, he curses and pulls out his middle finger,
It’s like poetry, but poetry with intent and not some bleeding heart bullshit,
I’ve heard the song that says, “anger is an energy”.

And I agree with that statement.


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