Secret Raindrops

I'm tired. I'm so tired. Growing up, I loved that special kind of lovely loneliness when you sit in your car, it's raining and it dances on the roof and you smile like you've got a secret. Now, I live in a world where bombs fall instead of rain drops and I'm praying the windshield will hold. I long for the soft pings to rock me to sleep, but there aren't any soft things left anymore, the drops are bullet holes, armor piercing rounds blood thirsty hounds bound and determined to see as many veins as possible ripped open and their contents washed into the gutter with the cold dirty water because a murderer felt ignored, marginalized, unloved, afraid while the NRA is in the corner grabbing lady liberty by the pussy with the second ammendment shoved in her mouth. I'm tired. I'm so tired. I'm tired in my bones. The world broke them open and sucked out the marrow. I'm tired in my soul, it's slowly dissolving in an acid slurry of hypocrisy. I turn on the tv and I see another piece of history come out of my time that paints us as violent, mindless drones cogs in a machine powered by hate and manufacturing lies. But they say art imitates life so I stay behind the white line. I'm tired. So tired. I'm tired of all of the fires scorching my homeland and torching houses and burning up lives like stacks of dried fire wood, while the powers that be continue to deny the legitimacy of global warming. I'm tired of living in a time when it's easier to by an assualt rifle than it is to find a psychiatrist. I'm tired of mental illness being treated as a sickness instead of the genetic curse that it is. I'm tired. I'm sad I grew up. I miss the rain. I miss the innocence. I miss the absolute silence broken by the soft patter of mother nature before she was thrown in the back of a government van choking on a carbon emission ball gag. I'm so tired. I want to lay down but I can't.