The Way I React to Rain

(Prelude: I am not much of a person. I'm more of a thing, or maybe a place, or just an indistinct noun. I've always had a hard time "fitting in." Well, just what in the fuck does that mean? "Fitting in" to what? Is it like that age-old idiom, "a square peg in a round hole," or something deeper? Who knows? Well, I'm happy to not "fit." I like being the puzzle piece that doesn't belong, the one that somehow snuck in the box at the factory or wherever it is that they make puzzles. If there is such a thing as a puzzle factory, I'd like to go. Maybe I could put stray pieces in every box just to feel like I have some bloody company, somewhere. Whatever, though - time for a "real poem.")

Today is grey, a grey-grey-day,
a day of which you'd prob'ly say,
"Why get up? Why? Why not just stay
inside, under covers all day?"

But you know you can't do that, though,
so you get up although you know
just how awful things always go
when outside there's this pseudo-snow

that simply kills the very will
to not just snap and blindly kill,
to maintain sanity and still
squelch the urge of a bloody thrill.

You'll talk of murder, anyway.
"It's a means to an end," you'll say.
You won't kill any, not today.
Instead, you'll keep the grey at bay.

The rain spits all over the glass
as you're running from class to class.
You slip on the glistening grass.
You curse, but you know it'll pass.

Soon, you know, you'll be far away.
You won't have to work. You can play.
You'll recover from this dead day.
You'll simply sleep off all the grey.