Biased Rain

I remember the thrill
of a first crush—
a heart lit aflame
by the promise of shared tenderness.
Then, the cold drop
when the eyes I longed to hold with mine
turned to another,
leaving mine the bitter taste
of silence.

Today, those familiar waters
are rolling in a larger ocean of sorrow—
a yearning for voices
that echo just as fiercely
across all wounds,
yet hear only the cries
of a chosen few.

Some hearts, it seems,
are deemed worthy of the sun’s rays;
others, left in dusk—
their grief an unseen shadow
in a landscape painted with favoritism.
In the cloudy sky of public mourning,
prayers fall like biased rain,
nourishing only the petals
of some blooms,
while others wither,
untended, lost in the quiet neglect.

The fury, the tender betrayal—
it is more than mere fairness missed;
it is the deep, aching knowing
that love, in its purest form,
should not choose its keepers,
should not measure its worth
by the color of our skin
or the borders we call home,
the creeds we carry,
or the faith we claim.

In the space between nature’s blind fury
and the telling gaze of the seer
I hold a grief as personal
as a crush unrequited,
as raw as a heart’s agony in the gut—
a personal elegy for every soul
forgotten under the guise of decorum,
for every life whose mourning
is an act of quiet rebellion.

Let this be a call
to break the spell of tribal empathy—
to awaken a world
where every heartbeat is
heard, cherished, and understood
in its full, unfiltered, painful beauty.