well, I wrote this haiku about rain~

the spring storm

slender white birches

bending in the cold wet wind

streaming tears of rain.

I don't usually write poetry, so my poem kind of sucks. I'd be open to any tips, though. 

raindrop

it’s hard to live a life

where no one accepts you

you’re an outcast, in your own bubble

like a raindrop

you live away from the others

they don’t understand your pain

all it is for them is entertainment

watching you slide down their window

seasons change, they say

colors shift, they say

but it doesn’t feel like anything’s changing

and I’m still a raindrop

dancing in the rain

amidst so much more

feeling so tiny, so insignificant

but so powerful

the water washes the worries away

and you’re left with nothing but euphoria and relief

and the freedom to dance unburdened

but sooner or later

that momentary happiness will dissolve and disappear—

and the worries will come flooding back faster than the pounding droplets all around you,

and beautiful surging tides of relief will turn into dank heavy reminders of every fear and worry,

dripping down and down and down smudging lines across your face and saturating everything until it becomes too heavy to even try to lift, 

and puddles will pile up salted with the tears you've long been holding in but are too tired to hide anymore,

and it’ll feel like there’s no way to go forward and maybe there isn’t and maybe it’s all too much,

piling up,

droplet by droplet,

until it reaches the breaking point and you’re just waiting, waiting for a glimpse of that previous joy you once felt dancing,

but it doesn’t come and you’re left,

standing out in the

rain. 

Ok so I tried to post an earlier draft of this (which didn't go up and I didn't save, ofc) and also rewrote this a bunch of times, before finally settling on this version and I haven't even proofread it so I don't know if it'll be good at all, but oh well-

~~~~~~~~~

What a fickle thing it is,

The Rain.

One's treasure, another's torture,

Spelling comfort or disaster,

Depending who you ask.

Indeed, how could something so magical

And soothing

Be the great calamitous force

He always said it was.

Yeah, he never liked the rain.

The thick grey and all-permeating petrichor

Must've been too heavy,

The moist monsoon air 

Coming far too close to a great serpent

Bent on squeezing the breath from his lungs,

Dunking him under the waves

And holding him down, an anchor

Meant to drown him forever.

Yeah, he never liked the rain.

That's why I've always wondered

Why he had to become a raindrop.

Wouldn't he have despised such a twisted fate?

But I suppose he also must've chosen

Not to become a shining star (too much pressure)

Nor the whisper of the soggy winds

And not dust again, lest he crumble and fade

From our memories

Just like all the rest.

No, perhaps the finality of a raindrops splat

Is what he so envied.

And so he dreamed himself into one,

And took flight to a new and far-off place.

*fidgets*

Okay…so I finally got over the fear that some stranger off the internet would plagiarize this (I’ve seen it happen before…and it drives me nuts) I know rhyming poetry with a consistent rhythm, meter, and a rhyme scheme doesn't appear to be the thing nowadays, but I cannot, CANNOT get used to writing free-verse, so it is what it is. The only disadvantage is that it's harder to squeeze in figurative language, so I mostly settle for personification.

The Rain Is All Surprises

The rain brings Clouds of darkness

That cork the Atmosphere,

And stands before the path of Light–

The path of all things Pure and Bright–

And won’t let them appear.

The rain brings Teardrops falling,

To soothe the weary Earth,

That writhes in Thirst for water dear,

A dewdrop or a silent tear–

To give the Flowers birth.

The rain Jumps on the sidewalk,

Brings chills and colds and aches,

It leaks to where it shouldn’t be,

And trickles down from every tree–

The Troubles that it makes!

The rain that’s fierce and gentle,

Varies in its Guises:

A dictator with Zealous eye,

A Child guiding raindrops by–

The rain is all Surprises.

Tornado

Rain hits my window,

I see clouds rolling in.

Branches start waving,

Here comes the wind!

Will I survive?

Is this the end?

Something falls over,

Because of the wind!

The rain slows,

The wind grows calm.

This storm is over! 

Rain

Rain, the sound of it pattering on the roof,

Rain, makes everything grow and change ,

Rain, my jacket is not water proof,

Rain, is sometimes strange,

Rain, I wish you would come every day.

I know this isn't super great but I like it so.... Yeah :)

(not) alone under the tree in the rain

the rain falls, dripping

off the tips of leaves in crystalline droplets, pattering on the gray sidewalk and slickening

her waterproof jacket

with a glassy glaze of wet.

the rain falls, dripping

off the end of his nose, pattering on his shoulders and soaking

his polyester sweater

with a gray, blurry haze of damp.

she has turned up the collar, so the corners brush the edges of her mouth whenever she ducks her head

(which is often)

(she has grown afraid to look people in their eyes, because in them she might see a reflection of herself)

he has not changed his pace since the rain started; he was drenched quickly and completely, and he reasons that running will not change his wetness

(besides, he is too weighted down to run)

(he fancies he has turned into another atlas with the pressure of the day he has almost left behind, a mountain grown incrementally)

(pressing upon him like he is at the very blackest bottom of the ocean)

he sees a tree ahead of him.

she's pulled a purple beanie over her ears, and choppy bits of her dark hair escape from underneath, dripping on her slick leather shoulders

occasional drops speckle the lenses of her glasses, but she doesn't wipe them away

(what's the point? they'll just keep falling)

she's taken refuge under a tall tree with rain-glossened leaves, which do not entirely block the rain, but it's still better than standing in the downpour.

she is staring at the fresh green ground

she is thinking about how she is alone under the tree in the rain, how she is so very often alone

and this thought gives a hunch to her shoulders and a crease to her eyebrows and a grayness to her eyes behind the wet-speckled glasses

she is so absorbed in her wonderings that she hasn't noticed that she is not alone under the tree in the rain.

on the other side of the tree,

he is soaked completely, but he is grateful for the shade of the tree, and for the

murmuring tap-pitter-patter-tap of the rain on the leaves and the sidewalk and themselves, because it

helps him ignore the weight on his shoulders,

the weight of a day's worth of glances and words 

interpreted by his pervasively persuasive mind, reminding him of

how he is alone under the tree in the rain, how he is so very often alone

and he is so absorbed in his ponderings that he hasn't noticed that he is not alone under the tree in the rain.

in a few minutes,

the rain will let up and the sun will shine and they will go their separate ways

their eyes on the ground, so they do not see each other pass

(they are too afraid to see each other's eyes and glances and hear each other's words, even if it means)

(they are not alone under the tree in the rain)