I was born on a hot july night but I have always found solace in the rain,
I am a snowflake rather than a hot summer breeze,
which makes me sad.
I feel beautiful over summer, and disgusting during winter,
But there is something creative hidden in the grey skies and thunderstorms,
That I miss greatly as soon as June comes around.
I can not write or paint when I feel beautiful,
I am too busy, dancing, flirting, singing.
I can not be angry when the stranger smiles at me on the bus,
Or when the man tells me I'm the prettiest sight he has seen this year,
I can only write angry poems,
about the raindrops, and lightning and the warmth of a bed, when I feel sad.
I blossom in winter.
And wilt and die as my birthday arrives.