Drip Drops Won’t Beckon This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By
     Everyone writes poems when it rains,
So they say.
The soaking bulbs of glass,
The acid-spitting drips.
It must inspire when a cloud cries down
To the earth,
Pouting and bawling like a baby
In shock after falling into gravel.
Pens scratch brilliantly when others suffer.
No exception for Mother Nature.
Her wet, emerald eyes
Are fair game.
I spend no time doodling
When the sky bursts
To pieces.
No solace comes
In the catharsis of post-rain.
No,
My chest doesn’t heave in relief,
And I pay no mind to the muddy overcast.
Only by chance does it rain when I write.


This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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