My Poetry. Raindrops.

The only thing I hear
are raindrops on the glass;
the forefront in my mind
is the crushing pain I now amass.
Deep as the wound cuts, it never mends,
it casts more doubt into my weary heart.
Solitude is a thing I could never face,
especially now that we must part.

I close my eyes and instantly you appear;
your image is always present in my heart.
The days are nights, the nights are day—
I don't know where to begin, or where to start.
Still, a hollow silence fills the air
with only the steady rhythm of the rain.
When I reach out to you in the desolate night,
emptiness fills me with an icy pain.

I force myself to wish you well now,
in your new life where sunshine fills your day.
Yet a secret, dark desire whispers low:
Text me when I'm alone, make my sunny day gray.
This desperation fills my trembling body
as I kneel upon the cold, hard ground;
my world is swallowed by this hollow void,
and raindrops are the only sound.

My world is now a muted, faded hue,
a prisoner's life where longing holds the key.
I search for peace in every shadow cast,
but only find the echo of what used to be.
I wait for some small signal from the dark,
a breath of life that whispers, "You are near."
But the rain insists that you are gone for good,
and leaves me stranded with my grief and fear.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025