She supposed it was more than just rain.
It was a touch, light and rough upon the skin.
A harsh tap tap that seemed to echo through the world.
Eventually, it took over as she knew it would.
It felt cool, running down her soul
Not that she wanted the cracks cleaned out.
But the rain was insistent, formidable, and crushing.
It was, after all, more than just rain.

I prefer the gray.
I don’t want to choose between dark and light.
I like it that way.
No one can tell me if I feel alright.

I prefer the gray.
It can be whatever I want it to.
I like it that way.
Why pick joy or pain when both can be true?

I prefer the gray.
An aching heart can have a smiling face.
I like it that way.
Why must my emotions have their own place?

I prefer the gray.
What you think I mean is for me to know.
I like it that way.
When the words confound you just let them go.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.