It must be nice to be a cloud; to get so full of what surrounds: all evaporates. It has no say, but then, when full, it relieves the pain. Rain pours down for what can seem, at times, to be eternity. Though it's dark, soon comes light, and the world is full of life.
To be a cloud would be a dream; instead I'm trapped inside of me. Like a cloud, I soak up pain. Overwhelmed, I wait for rain. It grows and grows until it hurts. Still in drought, I wish to burst. Skies turn dark, yet try as I may, my eyes refuse to precipitate. Alas--they do; storms pour down until my heels can't feel the ground. Overpouring flood waters rise; I'm drowning fast in my cries. At last, it stops; I look around--no life has grown upon the ground; instead what's left are puddles of strife to evaporate again into my life.