I feel like ****. Screaming doesn't make it better. Crying doesn't make it better. Take a walk and clear my mind. Smoke a cigarette. Nothing feels any better. It's that feeling of desperation that clings to you, Like wet clothes after a down pour. It will only get better if I change my clothes. But in order to do that I must get naked first, Vulnerable. And that could quite possibly be worse. So I will sit here crying, Waiting for them to dry. But you forgot to tell me to get out of the rain first.