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I let the rain fall upon my shoulders.
It is cold,
yet welcoming somehow.

I taste the salty sadness
as it runs in lines
down my face,
and drips off my chin.

After months of the emotional hiatus,
this storm has ended it all.

I feel the electricity welling inside me.
I wait for the lightning to strike,
before the deafening boom of thunder.

And I am awake.

For the first time in months,
I feel everything instead of nothing.
I am somber.
I am impassioned.
I am free;
to feel
and to let the feelings take me in their arms
and throw me until I can’t move.

This monsoon
is long overdue
and the numbness of emotion beats
the paralysis of feeling nothing.
Grey Apr 20
Blood runs down my blistered fingers
and my hands are cramped and shaking.
My pen runs dry but still I write
yet my resolve is slowly breaking.
If I give up, just die alone
and drown in my thoughts tonight
would anyone care enough to notice,
would they wish I'd put up a fight?
I was told to write out my emotions,
that they'd dissipate like lost love,
but instead there's been a monsoon
that I never will be free of.
Instead of sticking to the page,
the ink is raining down
filling even the vastest oceans
in which I'm going to drown.
So if I am gone before the morn
just know it wasn't you.
It's the ink that got the best of me,
and so I say adieu.
Would they wish I'd put up a fight
or would they be glad I'd given up
and ended this useless plight?

Sometimes no matter how much I write, that horrible feeling is still there..
by Michael R. Burch

There, in that sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a stunted banana tree,

I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms of pots and pans.

I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble and heave
in pregnant indignation,
turned tail, and ran.

Published by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Super Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: pregnancy, pregnant, goddess, belly, wrath, anger, storm, monsoon, hormones, pots, pans
Gaurang Rai Mar 21
Kids splashing a puddle,
A couple sharing a cuddle,
A village getting a filled up well,
The soil below giving out a beautiful smell.

The cool weather and the raindrops chilled,
You feel them and your stress gets killed,
You prepare some tea and fill up the mugs,
Sit by the window and listen to the bugs.

If your day is going bad and your mind is at a
Open the window, sit back, and feel the
monsoon breeze,
I mean, afterall,this is the time to forget life's
To sit back with your loved ones and enjoy a
plate full of fritters!

From taking pictures to going for a walk,
Maintain your silence and let the nature talk,
For it and only it can soothe all your pain,
It's June, and the channel it uses, is the RAIN!
Had written this earlier during the monsoon,but posted it now as corona is making me feel homesick with nothing else to do.🙂
LC Feb 19
after a long monsoon,
the sun dries the cloud's tears.
Aditya Gautam Jan 16
Poetry is not written,
poetry is found.
And there’s a secret
to finding poetry,
and I’ll tell it to you,
but only to you,
and the secret is this:

When it is October,
wait for the rain,
and when it rains,
besides the rain,
and when you’ve sat,
for words and dreams
in the space between
the drops of rain,
and when you’ve searched,
for love and madness
in tiny streams that run
through the cobblestones,
and when you’ve looked,
hope and faith
in blurred reflections
of yellow-white lights
on the wet cement floors.

When you’ve done all this,
then, at last,
get up,
and walk into the rain,
hold out your tongue,
taste the world,
and let a little rain fall
on your paper too,
so that the ink runs
like tiny black streams
through paper-stones,
and the words blur
like the lights’ reflections,
and meaning melts,
like rainwater into mud,
and just so,
and only so,
Poetry is Found.
A B Faniki Jan 7
In monsoon period
the gray clouds release a lot
flooding the riverbeds.
©A B Faniki 01/07/2020 All right reserved It is amazing that it is always raining heavy somewhere.
Jason Adriel Dec 2019
you are the monsoon that suddenly left after causing a flood in a village called I.
Yeah, unrequited.
lo Oct 2019
this is when i want you the most; when its 9 30 am and it is still gray outside because the rain came early today. press your fingertips into the dips of my waist with every roll of thunder because you are here and i am here and its dark but its still a new day. in arizona, we're lucky to get rain three months out of the year, those months are called monsoon season. heavy storms that knock over chairs and threaten windows, knock on car doors begging to be let in. we count down to the start of monsoon season and i cant help but think how beautiful it is that so many people who will never meet all look forward to this one thing. when it rains, we cry, creating our own storms and puddles on tile floors with rumbling laughter for thunder. you, dear, are a monsoon, in every sense of the word; strong and beautiful and devastating. anticipated. i count down the days, and when you finally arrive, everything is finally bright; your smile supplied its own lightning. you knock on the counties of my body and make yourself at home until its time to go. monsoons always start and end with drool and you are the same way, able to create something from nothing; incredible.
found in my closet, handwritten in july of 2017
Tsunami Aug 2019
make an appearance
before the
so will you.
i was 17 when i wrote this
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