They tell me it is raining outside

They tell me it is raining outside, but,
I am far too pre-occupied to notice;
My feet shift their location
Under the mental table on which
I do much of my work;
Still, I long for the days of my youth
When it was difficult but
Not so uncomfortable trying to please
Or wishing to be pleased as they
Always seemed to miss the point;
I wonder if it is those same people who
Now tell me about the rain?
Silly parrot, I think to myself
As thoughts of you drift by with the
Clouds of my illusions, as so
Ever-present and not so amusing;
Yet, I persist in my ravings and
Cravings of your attention,
Even when it is raining while
All too dry I remain inside – as I have
Always done when confronted with
What I have done. Why do you not
Understand my lunacy; it makes perfect
Sense to me as it always has done,
Serving me well in my present stages of
Youthful aging and prissy drugs that
Try to make us forget.
They tell me it is raining outside, but I am
Still waiting for your call to remind me
That it is not me you don’t understand
But my… oh well, not to see or
Worry but bless me as I am bless by
Knowing that you do, in some way, love me
You know, I like the rain when
It is on the outside of me,
At least sometimes, and the sun shines
On all the myths of my yet-to-be’s.