Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Pitter patter,
pitter patter.

The rain echoed in your head,
as you tried to remember what the drizzle sang
On that cloudy noon in November.

With its rhythmic tune
And endless repetition,
It danced its way to your sun roof
installation.
Staining the back of your mind with images of tear drops,
shed by the clouds.
For the skies missed your company.

The rain drops,
Quietly tapped on the,
Glass panes of your apartment; reminding you to use your umbrella.

Their warning useless,
Because you never wanted one.
Never needed one.
Even as the cool shower
came rolling through town.

You were there: Umbrellaless.

See,
The dreary weather here seemed so...
Relaxing.

Well,
not to anyone but you..

But it was as if the rain that day,
brought a hint of restlessness.
The aroma of coffee shops
became tempting,
like little boy's feet
drawn to sidewalks full of puddles.

They teased and tickled your exposed skin,
Those parts unsheltered by your favorite grey cotton sweater

The rain left the scent of wet pavements and fallen leaves,
lingering on the tip of your nose and top.

It seemed like one of those days:
Reading your book;
Your body tangled up in the couch;
A blanket to warm you;
Freshly brewed tea on hand,
as the endless chime of drizzling kept you company.

To you,
it was the most sensible thing.

The bustle of the city went mute as you walked along the avenues and streets.
(Especially without an umbrella.)
For where you went, you felt the rain.
While others got wet.

And for that brief stroll around the city,
slightly damp.

You were lost in the rain.
Calm and free.

For the rain was your friend,
And you were his..
Pitter patter,
pitter patter,
pitter patter.

I hope it  rains today.    

Sent from my iPad
It kinda drizzled today
Tara Marie Nov 2014
Skies are hues of sullen smoke,
pavements glossed in rain;
falling softly, picturesque.
Where does the water drain?

Hands of many compromises,
eyes engulfed in pain.
Washing worries with off-brand soap.
Where does the water drain?

The daydreams, they are staring back
irises of shame,
that only scrutinize themselves.
Where does the water drain?

Tears are not expelling,
the force of strength; insane,
God swims inside them somewhere new,
Where does the water drain?

The only one who's ever seen
my soul beyond a windowpane.
A mist, a fall, a downpour,
but *Where does the water drain?
Steff Aug 2014
It's raining,
A downpour of
All the little things
That are stealing
Away my sanity.
Leah May 2014
Writing poetry has changed me a lot
since i became a subject of the material,
and my words are more fixed and flawed
than myself.

They flow from line to rhyme,
stabbing me into the heart
a hundred pages of thoughts
is spinning so fast
that i can barely catch any of it
if it really means
a lot to me.

It is as to flood me into downpour with it
from the Sun
yet the typical look reflected on a mirror
reminds me of who i really was
and nothing can be re-written from a history.

No roses can blossom without a rain, they said,
like they babbles up themselves to say
in front of enemies
that every petals are new-born warriors
and
the rest of  the past was the biggest blur
as if they were dropped directly into
a wrong time, at a wrong place,
like it's made by fairy tales.

— The End —