White Door.

Resting young but intolerant bones wayside of a window seal, I can see a solitude that can only reach me through this kind of frame. Grey blankets the scene that surrounds my picture and I am left with a plush feeling of calm. Feeling my infant back being caressed by motherly acrylics. Swirling over indentations and imperfections of a future laying on its side. What will become of these hours left to soak in a unrelenting pour? Commute moves parallel to the constant tapping of a storm dancing on impatient concrete that is soar. Everyone is frantic, everyone is everything reflecting my good nature at ransom. This rain, this rain was supposed to wash away my insecurities, but with every drop is a blunt pounding reminder on this "decent" soul. I am ground zero.