If wishes fell like rain, then certainly I am a storm.

My ambitions boil over like a pan left on heat.

It stuns and burns and leaves an awful oily puddles.

Incomplete tasks and the dwelling of procrastination, a paper umbrella.

My wishes catch like little smiling hooks, they coo and kiss me and catch my held breath with a tug.

The rain keeps me up at night, it holds me down and spits in my face.

What on earth, the flooding won’t stop, I am downing.

Ambition is a blessing and a curse, these watchers, watching me drown. Eyes and binoculars at the ready, beaded and branded I float on top.

O’ doctor of mine, provide some drug to pass this time. To speed through winter, rain and toil, to hold the sun and make it boil.

My ambitions hold my legs and the rain slows and sticks, like honey. I am the fly? Trapped and swollen. All this pain and held tension eating my organs, the rain acidic to my heart, my stomach, my womb?

My womb…

Empty and drowning, forgotten amongst the rain, the spitting. The flaming glisten obliterated, charred. Wet soot, nothing more.

Beaten, blurred and blunted. Bounding rain will always continue. But is it just me?