Black Tea & Rain

I found a little number i wrote a few years back on a day like this...

Black tea & rain. . .

Music lingers like fingers strumming chords. Balanced the checkbooks - They got me for 44 bucks & I don’t care enough to run it back..... The beast sleeps now, but dreams a dream unfulfilled. . . I was not born to do the dishes but I did ’em anyway. I was not born to fold underwear & towels & separate the socks in pairs but I did it for a long damn time. I was not born for a 9 to 5 world. I do it. I was not born for a great many things that consume the hours of my days. I think that’s why I dream such terrible dreams in sleep - because I am infected with the waste of an American Dream. I am infected with the waste of a material world..... The day grew cold after the rain. Cold on my face on a long walk through North Hill. Grey everything when the eyes cannot see green. Chat with people of the city, but take what they say with a grain of salt. These years I’ve learned pretty much everyone here never tells the truth. I’ve grown to find that the more you tell the truth, the less people believe you. It’s not until you tell some lies that they begin to nod & agree.