A poet with a hand that cramps

A poet with a hand that cramps is like holding that hand over a flame just to survive the cold. I suffer this constantly arising setback. It comes in the form of lack of passion trickling down my cheek in moments of strain. I want the world to feel my pain but in moments where it matters most I run so fast away it strips me of my breath. I don't go out in the rain because I'm scared I might fall in love. You see I love so many many things in this world. Like the rain. Like the sunset. Like the street lights illuminating in the night so I can be just a little more careful on my adventures. I love going out at night because there's so many people scared of its fright and it just kinda sorts out the weak. And when you see someone passing by you don't stop to say hi. You give them some space because you know there's a little bit of strain in their voice and that's why they're out there walking around while the weak ones are asleep. While they're counting sheep to pass the time before their bodies give way to the inevitable failure of a good night's rest. Ever since I was 7 I started going out at night. When nobody knew where I was or why I still went walking the tightrope between sanity and success. I was 16 when I finally learned that the sidewalks weren't meant for me. She used to tell me no fucking good reason other than having to almost die to live. I used to call her so many names and one day she fell in love. I watched them twinkle in the moonlight giving no sign that they actually existed but they didn't care. And I guess something went wrong along the lines of she took too long to stare. And I am 17 years of age walking the tightrope between sanity and success. Pushing so hard toward one that I'm losing sleep over the other. And sometimes. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes the clouds give way no longer able to hold the weight of what we pump up into the atmosphere. Sometimes the world doesn't understand why it tries so hard and in return it's destroyed by those it holds dear and shelters with it's entirety of pain. And so sometimes I look up and say it's okay to rain. And sometimes in moments like this one. I can't help but feel the same. Because you see rain isn't so little as to be a few drops from the sky perfectly landing with the absence of symmetry on your face. It isn't moisture in the air released to experience the cool droplets that makes everyone smile as they run in frantic desperation to remain with their clothing and appearance untouched and with the lack of passion ruining it. I don't know what it is about rain that makes me turn away. Maybe because you never know if someone's been crying. Maybe it's because it makes you scared to look up. For fear that your eyes might get wet and desire for lack of passion trickling down your cheek. I think about these things more than I'd like to admit. And I own a pocket watch which she gave to me. She meant to set it to 1:43 as in the number of letters in I love you. But if you look closely enough then you can see that the minute hand is barely behind the 43 tick. And we're not quite on time. And when time runs out. When that clock loses it's patience and finally screams to the heavens I love you. Then. In that very moment. I will have a heart so shriveled and broken it won't be able to beat. Just fucking kill me. I will take a car and once again break 120 like we did so many times. But this time. My hand will refuse to cramp and the muscles will finally release and the wheel will pull. And I promise you it's going to rain.