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Rain falls today,
In me this day it has struck.
I feel it dance, I feel it’s will as if it’s alive.
I know this day it falls for me.
I’m awakened, somewhat aroused,
The wind whispers to me, I listen.
In solitude I, confess.
Lost for words only the utter of reminisce.

Hard times and poverty all around
Sadness and reality,
Breeding destruction.
This day the rain falls and I ponder……
Who are we really?
Do we find wings or do we breed destruction.
Who are we really?
Do we live?
Do we bleed in heart, in soul?
Or is a john doe a memory in collection.

The rain falls,
Not from the depths of earth.
It falls from above.
We see its sadness,
I wonder why?
It falls from above.
The clock that binds,
Man made.
The rain that falls is in heart,
Who we are really.
This dawn that is what i find.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Last few words: 
OK Wesely dont hurt me on this one, just kidding. you have pointed out to me alot of wat ive forgot. This is where i struggle at the moment, Depth. Im busy working on one i think you will like. This was my break from it.
Editing stage: 


No typos. I like the haunting subject matter. You seemed to use a few more commas than I like. Some superfluous, but it doesn't interfere with the read and only picky bastards like me would even notice.
Only one line gave me trouble. "Or is a John Doe..." I didn't understand that one. I think it's staring me in the face and I'm too dense to realize it.
Everything else is gently powerful.
A good effort and I anxiously await the other poem.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Interesting piece. I love the line "I know this day it falls for me", I think it would work well as a refrain in this poem; food for thought:).

Nice work!

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