The constant patter of the rain,
Just assists the throbbing pain,
Inside my brain, inside my head,
That makes me think I'd be better off dead.
Down a wall, trickles a drop,
Causing my burning tears to stop,
Their long, sad path down my face,
While I sink into my dark place.
I tilt my face up to the cloud,
That produces the rain that patters loud.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem