Raindrops keep falling, falling, falling—
like fists on the skin, like words that sting,
like echoes of war we never meant to sing.
But we do. Again and again.

Like it's all we know.
We are born with fire, right?
Hearts pounding, souls burning,
raw, real, reaching for something—
but somehow, we forget.

We learn to wound before we learn to heal.
We learn to take before we learn to give.
We learn that power means stepping on necks,
not lifting up hands.

And it cycles, cycles, cycles.
One person bleeds, another turns cold.
One get's broken, another breaks more.
We think we've built a world,
but really, we've built a cage.

More, we chant. More, more, more.
More money. More fame. More things.
But does more ever mean enough?
Or does it just mean less of us?

Less love. Less truth. Less seeing—
because we are to busy chasing illusions, to look in each other's eyes.
And maybe, just maybe.
The answer isn't bigger, or louder, or richer.

Maybe the answer is softer.
Maybe it's choosing to hold instead of hit.
Maybe it's breaking the cycle—
before it breaks us all.

Raindrops keep falling, falling, falling.
But we don't have to drown.