this is meant to be what it needs to be....

The sky must be made for clouds and every day gloomy, it rains harder and harder until rock becomes mud. Sun's rays ne'er a chance, the soil is sick and so is my heart. The sounds and smells dull and muted, a soggy wet map to guide one through it. All is damp, all is cold, life has wilted, become old. Puddle after puddle, drip after drop, dust to dust. Nothing was meant to live under these conditions, no not one. Yet year in, year out, i remain, rejected, pondering, wondering, questioning, is this love? Was this how it was going to feel to hold it in? I think the sky must be made for clouds.

THAT WAS terrible.