The Rainstorm

The darkened sky, 
the roaring thunder.
The rainstorm follows and raindrops fly.
When can I come up with something, I wonder?

My fingers are tired of waiting without typing,
my eyes weary of staring without seeing a line.
Blame my life, too sheltered too cozy without yearning.
Blame the weather, too hot too humid for a regular walk of mine.

Too concerned to bite,
too timid to fight, 
too afraid that things are not right.

Too proud to imitate, 
too uneasy to brag,
too doubtful to judge.

Too many moments I failed to capture,
too many ambiguities I failed to describe.
My notebook is as messy as my mind,
and my ideas as aimless as my life.