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The Rain

Will things ever get better?, he says in a rhetorical tone. No, whispers the perpetual bad guy from a dead cell phone. Is there anyway we can rebuild this broken, burned down bridge? No, replies the same voice as he grabs a cold beer from the fridge... Pop another pill and forget it, as my life slides down the drain...  You are going to get wet when you're too stupid to come in from the rain... You hate me, fine. I hate you too. You want me out? What am I to do? I guess I'll rot in this open grave. I suppose I'm getting exactly what I gave... So as I listen to The Midnight Special play with the background of an impending storm, I recall my father, for which I still mourn. I'm slowly starting to see that this bad guy isn't real. He's just part of this bubbling cauldron of emotion that appears whenever I feel. He tells me to tell lies. He threatens me by fear. I think I'll shoot him tonight, as soon as I finish this beer.


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