Author: Sophia Falco
These raindrops resemble teardrops that I believed were almost falling in slow motion, but with the blink of an eye, they hit the pavement despite—what once was 3-D now 2-D is now just an imprint on the sidewalk. A darker shade of gray than the concrete itself soon to evaporate leaving no trace of its existence.
This sidewalk is not soaked in rain just yet because this was the beginning of the storm rolling in. The beginning. If only instead I thought those raindrops resembled hope not sorrow. This rain is desperately needed for this drought, whereas I definitely do not have a drought of sorrow.
The water starts hitting my window since the wind had moved in a different direction—slant—while my perspective on the world is perhaps slanted towards sorrow. An inclination that I don’t desire. I’m unable to break free from sorrow’s grasp like that snake taken ahold in the grasp of a hawk. Those sharp talons digging in, and I don’t want to dig myself deeper in this depression.
I used to love the rain, jumping in puddles in my little yellow raincoat adorned with the decorations of bees. If only I could fly free like them, and be a tourist of flowers, coating my body in pollen like golden armor like that yellow raincoat in the first place like the now hidden rays of the sun.
I try to hide my sorrows from most, but my writing speaks volumes like the now sheer amount of rain coming down in sheets, and then I think of sheet music. What cord progression the different sounds that the rain makes hitting various surfaces? Whereas I cannot read sheet music like how he cannot comprehend my poems, he once said.
Sometimes I pretend everything is fine, but I fear that he still can see the sorrow reside in my eyes. I am a poet who sees this world in endless possibilities for the potential of poems to be born—just waiting to be born—yet I believe there is no such thing as a perfect poem.
I heard that the other day, a man speaking of wanting perfect poems, but really his head is up in the gray clouds not grasping the point of poetry like the worn-down points of my pencils. I’m worn down by hearing about this repeatedly like the incoming raindrops creating rhythms.
This ideal really a non-existent entity—there is no perfect poem, no perfect world, no perfect answer to free me from this suffering.
Sometimes I want sorrow to be a raindrop, not just embody one, but to be one so that way when it falls down from the sky from the forces of gravity from 3-d to 2-d when it hits the pavement—and stops falling like how I wish I could stop this sorrow, and wish I would not fall further.
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Sophia Falco
Sophia Falco is a faithful poet since she finds poetry essential to her understanding of the universe. She is the author of Farewell Clay Dove (UnCollected Press, 2021). In addition, she is the author of her award-winning chapbook: The Immortal Sunflower (UnCollected Press, 2019), the winner of the Mirabai Prize for Poetry, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Furthermore, Falco graduated magna cum laude along with the highest honors in the Literature Department at The University of California, Santa Cruz. Her Bachelor of Arts degree is in intensive literature with a creative writing concentration in poetry. She loves to take long walks on the beach to be in the presence of the water, and to witness the ocean’s vastness, blueness, and beauty.