It's raining again

It's always like this
Every time rain starts
My mood starts to plummet

As the rain drops on the ground
It echoes loudly
On my hollow heart

Thread, hangs a marionette
Dancing in glee, striding
On a lake, youthful cygnet
Above, ripples resonating

Empty, the thoughts hollowed out
Plasters imprinted with faces
All day, all night, an empty throat
A spectacle, clanging dances

A husk, his body aboveground
His body, plastered, his face, red
Supine, his thoughts, praying to God
Hanging above, by flimsy thread

her smile was all
that i needed

the laugh tumbling
from her lips
drenched in 'aloha coconut' chapstick
the only thing i allowed myself to
want

without her
i am a hollowed out rind
sitting on the
sidewalk, with
the chalk fading away because of the drizzle
and
no one
to draw in the lines
because she and i
were the only ones
that ever played
hopscotch

I spent my last birthday in tears
I won't make that mistake again

Walking in the woods to clear my thoughts
With birds keeping me melodic company

I give a round of applause after their impromptu performance

The attention they receive from me is the attention I hope for on my special day this year
The way they they make their exit is the way I wish I could make my entrance
On wings
Landing from an elegant flight fashionably late

But bones are not quite hollow enough yet

hollow.
sunken.
depressed.
what a mess
in the flesh.
and i contest
you to confess
that i am in fact
a pest.

the words are few and fleeting
they hide outside my door
my poet's mind retreating
a hollow empty roar
i turn to quiet nights
and share old words with the dead
these lost and passing spirits
whisper kindness in my head
the sleep it comes sporatic
the Sun no longer beams
to light my inner sanctum's eye
to capture poetic dreams
i yield to blank submission
the flickering screen and stare
i feel no sense of mission
the poem tree is bare

The hands of the clockmaker and his sundial troughout the following days: one shall perceive their scars and healed by one who stays from the first second to last. They may indicate the best for worst, the light for the darkest hour. And by the end of their lives, their red dots will be tangled. No one spits fire nor bleed ice. Bathed in sunshine, washed in rain. Until they discern the contrary of their sides of the world and pelted by their own shadow of their childhood.