Irony of the Clouds
The irony of the clouds, the backwards image of the sky
Happy, white, and full, they fill until they die
Then it rains, and cold cold wet rain hits everything, everyone, and the sky is grey.
Even the clouds let out, have an outlet
People see them as happy, and see other clouds as sad
The irony of the clouds, the same one grows and cries, the same full white cloud, it turns grey, and lets out the things it can’t hold for it’s life.
Oh the shock if they learnt that the clouds hit their brim,
When they realize how ugly pretty little clouds can get
When clouds let lighting out, when clouds aren’t white
When clouds cry and when they shock
When they dissipate and disappear
Some big and some little, some thin and some thick
They all fill and they all let out, and if they don’t, they grow and grow until they can’t grow anymore,
Then they seperate, lost among the clouds, among those that they can’t tell themselves apart from.
Why don’t we let the little cloud weep, so that it can grow white once again?
Perhaps I will never know, but maybe for once, the little cloud can cry, and not be all alone.
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 4:16 AM UTC
Irony of the Clouds
The irony of the clouds, the backwards image of the sky
Happy, white, and full, they fill until they die
Then it rains, and cold cold wet rain hits everything, everyone, and the sky is grey.
Even the clouds let out, have an outlet
People see them as happy, and see other clouds as sad
The irony of the clouds, the same one grows and cries, the same full white cloud, it turns grey, and lets out the things it can’t hold for it’s life.
Oh the shock if they learnt that the clouds hit their brim,
When they realize how ugly pretty little clouds can get
When clouds let lighting out, when clouds aren’t white
When clouds cry and when they shock
When they dissipate and disappear
Some big and some little, some thin and some thick
They all fill and they all let out, and if they don’t, they grow and grow until they can’t grow anymore,
Then they seperate, lost among the clouds, among those that they can’t tell themselves apart from.
Why don’t we let the little cloud weep, so that it can grow white once again?
Perhaps I will never know, but maybe for once, the little cloud can cry, and not be all alone.
Freeform poetry, written about the cultural pressure to keep things in. I write as an outlet, so too bad if you don’t like it, but constructive criticism is helpful!
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