Petrichor

When the rain falls on to the asphalt

And petrichor smells erupt,

I'll remember the cloudy days spent in my room,

My mind full of inspirations and ambition

To create a beautiful painting.

I put my ideas onto paper and the brushstrokes

Graze the pristine canvas with dazzling colors

As pitter patters are heard overhead on the roof.

I create the soft waves of the ocean

That sparkle endlessly in the sunlight

Beneath a clear, blue sky.

I create the flowing, luscious green leaves of

Old trees that provide shade near a pond.

I create the essence of a dream in which

I have achieved everything imaginable,

In a world where I am no longer worrisome

And I am left in a haze of peacefulness.

When the rain falls on to the asphalt 

And petrichor smells erupt,

I'll remember the cloudy days spent in my room,

In which I became an artist.

This poem is about: 
Me

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