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Just Rain Already
by Erik Peterson

My favorite color is blue.  I like lasagna and fettunccini.  Today for show and tell i have a poem...

As an 18 year old writer, I believe that "the demographic" is grossly overrated, despite the endless archives of evidence that one might have saying "Erik, you have an audience.. speak to them". Writing's gotta be seen as a tool, a challenge, a dare; its a walk through your mind that no one else can take, and chances are you'll never describe what you see on that walk..but out of sheer chance, you keep scribbling anyway. It's sweet since you alone can see that picture, so you weigh criticism and judgment, you question your truths and build new ones. Sardonic, emotional, hysterical, mundane, absent, and startling; writing is the minutes of life; our notes on existence. Wow, deep. Check please.  

Laying on my back feeling what my bed can give, my headphones supply an anthem, soundtrack to the movie I live. With the volume notched just past that critical point, where sound becomes the focus and lyrics and living are joined, I wonder what to convey to my friends who now hear me blind, chancing collapse in foreign relations with ambassadors of mind. Tonight I want to smell the rain and ask the drops some questions, like what should I write to the woman I love without packing her mind with pathetic congestion? Conventional means boast trendy posters that chicly say "I’m normal", and poetry and prose replace the Eiffel Tower in an over-done proposal, so tonight I’ll do it differently, lay here and play my thoughts on hitchhiker magic, they’ll drift from drop to drop like a nomadic genius that’s had it. The rain picks up my thoughts deemed crazy enough to be carried, and the storm in the sky is closer to rhyme than verbs suffixed to be married. Let me turn off the lights and lay here in relative silence, composed of tiny explosions laced into melodramatic violence. This is just so pointless writing about the rain, but then what do equations give us, where in math do we reap any fields of gain? Arbitrary anything is up to the people that accept it, so telling me I'm wasting time won’t make me feel the least bit dejected. Maybe more independent, more in need of what you’re not, I’ll think my thoughts across the waves of what only me and another have got. If you think this action can be classified by those who say "we sulk", that caps my theory of you and the masses composing the ignorant populous bulk. I don’t fear a lack of movement I fear a life I’ve left to rot, and the difference between immobile and stoic is what locks you up with a lonely smoke and a lousy shot. It’s the "wee hours" of life and the clouds continue to pour, they’re speaking their souls between blankets and head boards. This represents nothing, metaphors mimic tonight, creating a standard for beckoning words to come and play before they learn to fight. ‘Cause descriptions will fail and then you’re just another poet, walking confused and alien to the rain with only scars that rhyme to show it. So just rain already and let these blankets concur, that the love we have between them will not be deterred. ‘Cause "weird" does not describe us to the extent which we deserve, for chasing questions that forfeit answers where legitimacy’s conserved. Now it’s tomorrow and you can see the clouds return, and what we thought science once borrowed we now call confirmed. Math and numbers have sized up and predicted where rain drops fall and when, but writers have known the sky like a brother, where its rules break and bend. Candles ignite and parchment is scratched long after scientists retire, whispering authors come down splashing on pages where dreams catch true cosmic fire.

©2006 Mental Contagion • Making Space for Visual Artists & Writers