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The city of rain= Seattle

Poetry By: sleepingwithsirens
Poetry


Poem I wrote when I was sad, but I tried to make it, well, not depressing lol :)Sorry bout the length heh :/


Submitted:Jun 3, 2012    Reads: 20    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


I am not going to write a sad poem

Even though I am sad

I am not going to write about love, loneliness, or you

You, my unknown to the reader

But very known to me

I am not going to write about pain

Even though it exists in the little crevices

Of the thudding organ I call my heart

I am not going to write about a breaking heart

Or my own scared, tender heart

No, today I am going to write about Seattle

The city of rain

See Mt. St. Helen surrounded by clouds

Making an occasional rumble

Always giving a constant reminder

Of how dangerous she is

The temperature averages 65 in July

And it rains the most March through April

This city has the biggest joke shop in the country

See all of its gags

This city started grunge, thanks to Nirvana

Look at the temporary room you are in

See the made bed, the plain endtables,

The TV and it's stand directly ahead of your bed

All of it is plain and dull

The bedsheets are a mustard yellow, the carpet is brown, and the walls

Are a faded light pink

This plain, dull room is contrary to your mood

Look out your panel window

See the cities lights and how they shine at night

See the Seattle Needle and how it stands out

Among the other structures

You notice a crack going across the ceiling

It is not deep, nor does it stick out

It is not visible unless seen by a keen eye

That crack fits your mood

You wonder over to your bag that is laying on the bed

Unlatch the buckles

Dig around through your clothes, makeup, sanitary products, and

Other little things

Until you find your rum

You tilt the bottle and drink deeply

You notice through your drunken haze

That the crack which seemed faint

Is actually more like a scar, visible

And can easily, if touched by the right thing,

Break open and if it does the crack will get longer and deeper

You do not touch it

You look at the clock and rub your eyes

To clear them It is 12:23 a.m.

But at home it is 3:23 a.m.

You take another swig of rum

You do not care to remember some people back at home

So you do not care to think of home

The rum numbs your always thinking mind

You look out through your window

At Seattle again

You see the cities lights, The Needle and

How it stands out, you see the counter culture

You hear the sounds of cars passing by

And rain falling steadily

Drip, drip, splish, splash

You see the moon above Mt. St. Helen

You just sit and stare

In your numb drunk state

At Seattle and the moon





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