It is so tragic, it's almost a crime

It's December 9th and I wonder if I should try to remember
where I was or should have been. I sometimes wish that what
I heard and what was seen would no longer be preserved
in my memory.
There were words spoken, promises that were broken
tears amidst the shouting, crying amidst the fighting
there may never be peace, no way of righting the
wrongs over the years.
It was raining almost always raining, the weather was draining
what little happiness there could have between us
remaining. I said, she said, I did, She did little before
the conversation went dead.
Why does it rain more on Mondays than any other day
why is it so bleak in so many little ways
today it's like there's more water falling down on me
than there are droplets flung up into the sky by the
humorless sea?

How can my life unravel in under an hour
how can anyone given such a dreadful power
so that my heart and hope and fear are in your
hands, I look to the west, the way the Sun went
out of my reach far away from my demands

Are you going to leave me after all this time
are our lives just subject to the verse and rhyme
it is so tragic, it's almost a crime
that the irony of all I have written
is like the missing happiness I thought
I had turned out to be sublime