People justify rain
By saying that when the human sins
become too unbearable for the world
They rain down upon them
In the form of blessing for some
And curse for others.
And it’s the sinners
Who are the most blessed
And the lovers
Who are the most cursed.
I think it’s somehow sad
How we hope the world would account for the love we give
But all we receive are curses in return.
Someone told me today
That in the way of loving(losing) you
I’ve become art
And I think that’s the worst version of me
All that I’m
Is these pieces you left,
Jagged, broken, dismantled,
All assembled haphazardly
And sprawled across these pages
sad and poetic enough
To be called art,
Just like the rain.
And also somehow broken and bruised enough
To not be called anything
But just remnants of a once beautiful poem.
It doesn’t beat in my chest
It just thrashes against my ribs
Until I’m weak enough
Until my knees buckle and give up
Until all I feel like doing is ripping it out
And shaking it
Like a maniac struggling with an overdose
“Is this better, tell me is it?”
You left me
But they say
You left behind some poems
That now I call mine
And have been throwing up
Every now and then.
I think these poems have been trying
To slip away
Quicker than sand
And they’ve all been trying to trace their way
Back to you.
But I think I don’t want them to leave
As easily as you did
Because maybe somewhere
I’m the rain
And I want to fall upon you
And bless you
Despite all the sins you have committed.