Painted pictures wouldnt tell the story.

No matter the weather outside, I feel the rain. Cold, it touches the skin, piercing with each drop... too difficult to decpher it from the tears, all the same. Its inside however. No one suspects the storm. Each night it returns. The same thundering pangs, made as affirmations to a relentless truth: It will never be okay. Wanting more than breath, for the sun to shine in, to crack this damp hollow. Beating heart pleads for a moment of reprise. HOLD YOUR TONGUE SIR. Continue this battle till blood retreats, marking its tracks along the field of poppies. WE ARE ALL ON OUR WAY. Time passes too quickly..Time scares me.