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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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Some jubiliant, kick ass flowers

 Dead leaves in the trash can,

Wet in rain,

Rotting under juice packets,

Plastic covers,

A leftover sandwich.

People spitting into it,

Dogs lifting their legs.

But there are flowers;

Pretty flowers

All around it.

Pretty flowers

That go ignored,

Pretty flowers no one will pick

Because they were spat on,

Pissed upon.

They've become the can itself.

No one will want them.

But it makes them grow,

It makes them stay,

It makes them bloom

Again and again.

They are not wanted,

So they are not used,

And they are not destroyed.


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