The Month of Rain

I am from rain;

The way it leaves you drenched when you rush to work without an umbrella is such a pain,

The wet concrete and earthy cloying smell is my favorite perfume,

The grey veil it drapes over the sky remindes me of my school's lunchroom

and the soothing, off-beat melody rain makes coaxes me to sleep without complain

I am rain;

I watch the water-needles smack into my bedroom window,

but the ability to reliquish the empty feeling in my heart is something I cannot attain.

I smell the auroma of coffee rising from a cup plastered with the word, "Lindo,",

but the vapors of my mother's cigarette call to me with a voice in vain.

I stared at a woman in the mirror and she looked at me like I was a weirdo.