This script has been written a hundred times over, and much like the rain, it will show itself less before it comes back again, And sometimes it is heavy, sometimes it is soft, It will kiss your forehead to sleep and then wake you up in the morning, sometimes like it is begging at your window for some kind of help, other times like it is just sitting on your windowsill, staring at you with bright eyes and a lust for washing away whatever has hurt you
I sit at this desk with flowers and candles and a whole hearse worth of broken words to express over a keyboard, And the script will be a masterpiece until it isn’t anymore
And I will pick out the actors and actresses using the names of hearts I am not invited into anymore, And I will play out the script on the stage I call my bedroom floor, Dance around until the early morning with or without the memories of emotions I do or don’t feel anymore towards these people
And what a curse it is here, Having writer’s block at this keyboard because I’ve drowned out the words for the script with the rain of someone else’s clouds, No umbrellas to catch whatever comes falling from the sky, just drops of rain on my glasses and soaked button ups
And by the time my clothes are dried and my glasses are wiped clean, When I look back at my keyboard and then the screen, The script is back to the first sentence I started with, and it has been like this a hundred times over now
When I finally finish this script, what will stop the rain from loving it too much?