Rain keeps falling down in streams,

  drumming on my window

  after falling down what seems

  an endless distance, below.

  Little armies of droplets, wet,

  rhythm to crescendo.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I lay silent in my bed

  'cause that's all I can do.

  This white noise, almost forgotten,

  masking my inherent pain.

  It makes wood so musty, rotten,

  rust grows on my soulish chain.

  I've yet to shed a tear this year,

  the clouds dried up for years.

  Instead I'm sitting here and hear

  this rain substitute my tears.

  Tomorrow is another day,

  I'm listening and hoping

  for clouds in my mind: go away!,

  so I can stop the moping.