deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Rain Machine

i lay here in the dark,
listening to the rain machine
fake thunder posing;
it�s close to the real thing,
i mean, sure it is, right?
but close still means �
a cheap copy of authentic
�
i need a cleansing...
a real downpour �
unleashing it�s fury, �
stinging my face �
and matching my screams
as it twists it�s fingers �
in my hair, �
covering up the typhoon �
already in progress here
�
i can hear it,
the simulated pattern -
an electronic sky �
full of droplets,
hitting the ground
with tiny tin slaps
like an audience �
applauding �
my latest failure
�
but i can�t feel it,
the smell of renewal
is missing -
no cold clammy fingers �
shoved into fleece-lined pockets �
trying to stay warm;
there�s only the knowing
that i tricked myself
on purpose,
so second best �
is close enough, i guess �
�
i�m reminded that nothing is real,
no matter what we tell ourselves;
we are all guilty
of some awfully tall tales;
we really will believe anything, �
as long as
as it keeps all manner of truth
firmly at bay; �
but, i�m a bigger liar than most, �
forever finding meaning �
in people and events �
that have none, �
not after they realize �
i�m just a really good copy