Driving down the interstate,
Staring into the dash,
Hydroplaning (lost in thought and
Glowing by too fast).
At first I think the droplets
Lay down smoothly on the glass,
Like a most precious mosaic
Painted in the distant past—
This holds no loveliness at all:
No orderly blueprint here, just
Clearish blue that splatters
And perilously bars my eyes
From seeing the road ahead.
I notice how the teardrops hit
With no apparent pattern.
They land, the wipers swipe them down,
A moment of clarity—
Then immediately more rainbombs fall and I'm blind once again.
The wipers and raindrops speak to each other
With the voices of my soul.
The rain is yelling:
LOOK AT YOURSELF. YOU ARE WORTHLESS.
In every wipe I hear the frustration:
LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY.
"Look at that, you're fat!"
"People tell you you're beautiful all the time."
"Look in the glass—you're as pretty as an ***!"
"Appearances aren't everything."
"True for some, but not for you; you have no talents or smarts in you."
"But you got a degree! In a field that you love!"
"Three prospect-less years have gone by; maybe you're just not meant to fly."
"You have people that love you—even a cherished man!"
"Love me they do, I know it's true; still they grow tired of my ever-gloomy hue."
Driving down the interstate
Staring into the dash
Noticing the ceaselessness
Of the raindrops on the glass.
I know the storm will never end;
It will always bring me grief.
The only escape from the tempest
Goes against my own beliefs.
I'm certain how this night will end:
With the dull scrape of relief,
Back to my vice that helps me cope
With demons underneath.