WALKING IN THE RAIN

Just to keep my mode flowing,

Sometimes I just like to stand stagnant in the
rain,
It feels like its slowly washing away all of the
pain.
No one can see the grief that's smeared all over
my face,
or hear the terrible things that my heart wants to
say.
The storms are the perfect reflection of emotions,
displaying heartbeats in disaster and sorrow in
motion.
Can you imagine a teardrop that falls into the
ocean,
would you be able to find it if bereft of devotion?
Dancing with my shadow in the torrential
storms,
tempest winds as calming whispers when clouds
are formed.
A darkened sky cursed with a grey paint hiding
when the sun is born,
for mornings never arrive, never shall it again be
dawn.
It's the devil's world engulfing the planet in a
darkness,
twas the sun first, the moon after and then the
stars next.
Our songs are becoming silent so now we become
heartless,
and this shadow blinds those who were once
considered artists.
Poets speak about beauty that dwells in this
world,
but they were just stories and remain as empty
words.
And though we do not see the flames, this
universe burns,
for our eyes are closed and ears deafened to
knowledge unheard.Sometimes I just like to stand stagnant in the
rain,
It feels like its slowly washing away all of the
pain.
No one can see the grief that's smeared all over
my face,
or hear the terrible things that my heart wants to
say.
The storms are the perfect reflection of emotions,
displaying heartbeats in disaster and sorrow in
motion.
Can you imagine a teardrop that falls into the
ocean,
would you be able to find it if bereft of devotion?
Dancing with my shadow in the torrential
storms,
tempest winds as calming whispers when clouds
are formed.
A darkened sky cursed with a grey paint hiding
when the sun is born,
for mornings never arrive, never shall it again be
dawn.
It's the devil's world engulfing the planet in a
darkness,
twas the sun first, the moon after and then the
stars next.
Our songs are becoming silent so now we become
heartless,
and this shadow blinds those who were once
considered artists.
Poets speak about beauty that dwells in this
world,
but they were just stories and remain as empty
words.
And though we do not see the flames, this
universe burns,
for our eyes are closed and ears deafened to
knowledge unheard.