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Loud Rain

The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…
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Labelled selfish

 People

Staying in rooms.

Alone.

Maybe with a cat.

Blocking out the wind

With closed windows.

Blocking out the windows

With dull drapes.

To them,

Sunlight

Is an imposter.

To them,

Birdsong

Is noise.

Going out only for food

For the cat,

For themselves.

“Selfish.” They say.

“Selfish.”

Living only for themselves.

Living only for themselves.


No,

They aren’t selfish.

They just

Hate themselves.

Hate themselves

For not enjoying the birdsong,

The sun.

Hate themselves

For not being able 

To love

To feel,

To relate to

The world

Anymore.

These poor souls were too good.

Too good for this world.

Too loving.

Too giving.

So the world shut them

Inside a room.

Inside themselves,

And called them selfish.

And the sun became an imposter,

And the birdsong became noise.

And the world continued to call them

Selfish.


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