So. Hey. Um. I'm back. Yeah. I've been away a while. Taking a little vacation into my hell. But I'm back. You see. It's criminally wrong to categorize poets but, poets are fundamentally greedy creatures. The kind of greed that hungers for the next cut, the next heartbreak, the next word, the next verse. The kind of greed that is a deadly sin. And I've been bleeding to the world a long time. But I needed time to take something. Absorb something. Now that I'm back. Stay tuned coz masterpieces are coming. This is just the beginning.
For a writer, life is always ...I suppose I'd say "interesting"? Just a minute ago, I heard a gunshot in the thunder Now you may wonder how it is that I heard such You see, once, in another life I would have been the one to do that Right before I let off a few more bullets into ...well, let's not speak about the past
I hear the rain running. My my, it's hard on its heels, Drumming its merry way straight for me Now I can't go out tonight to watch it Oh but how I miss the feeling it gave when the rain poured down on me.
The air's chilly, I like that By now, you know that I am a sucker for the cold Immune to its misgivings and within it, I find myself at home But it's not as cold as I'd like, it's rainy season, not winter So I have settled for petrichor smells instead of rimy tears of the sky. _____________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Howling debris and raging downpours Hammering hail and roaring winds
Nothing is as violent as the storm, Nothing, well, except God.
You like the storm.
That gust of wind that blows left, no, right, wait..no..straight downward? Bad winds are the worst at giving directions Yet they are just heralds of a more magnificent thing to come You await the storm...in your own ways, prepare for it..one would think you'd made yourself a devout worshipper of such celestial weapons. Ah yes, isn't that a storm? A bloody celestial weapon of the Lord? The very noticeable, unrelenting, unyielding, definitely impressionistic weapon...it's like a Leviathan of the sky; You can't evade it, can't run from it, can't really prepare for it, not sure if you may even survive it; All you've got left to do is buckle down, pray, wait and pray harder you may have ever prayed before, and then pray some more. You love this feeling; You love how the storms that come are like destiny, like death; Absolutely inevitable.
Don't you just love that sound of music the rain makes Such symphony it creates; the splash and pitter-patter of the rain as it rattles like tiny speed dancers, The clash of lightning bolts across the sky that give off the illusion of blacksmiths at work and warriors at war The tender (yes, you are most definitely mental if you can call it "tender") loving voices of soothing thunder that race to embrace anything that breathes in breathtaking terror The furious gusts of winds that blow like ho-ho-ho time to piss off bells and oh-so-jolly ghosts, taking swings and cuts at those that walk and turning cement men, golden rods and about any other bloody thing up on over onto their merry heads That fury, that certainty, that unpredictable nature of it, it is final...it knows that unless the One-Above-All deems it so, it is free to rain down havoc in lots and in plenty ...that no matter how advanced we get, we can never fight it. No man is a god in the eye of the storm. The storm knows only two things that go as far as the eye can see: power and fear.
You hide your unconditional love for the storms from most people, Cus' won't it be weird if someone saw a person laying down right in the middle of a fairly used tarred road; Under the strong but merciless lashes of heavenly hydro-forces, with a smile cemented on their face like some distraught and delusional creep begging to get run over by an unfortunate moving machine?..... Yes, isn't that weird? So you stay inside when everyone is around and observe your graces from the supposed safety of your windows. Just then the temperature drops, The air in your chest begins to go.......and come Cold to the touch, brutal, methodic, slow, dreadful, seething: That is the storm. The limitless artist with dark brushes and wild paints, splashing over the world with a sense of foreboding doom, intentions seemingly unclear, you love how serenading the carnage it brings is; Obsidian, pale, grey, cautious, dirty, vicious, unstoppable, incredible, the real Juggernaut: That is the storm.
Frothy clouds of darkened rage filled with teary pain Moving across Coal-black skies Waves that thrash about the oceans and seas Spiking winds and booming bass drums of war to accompany beautiful flashes of white The listening sky, overwhelmed by such weariness Seeks to huff and puff at every single thing in existence A malevolent sorcerer made of pent-up emotion having things that were once here moments before, now gone the next.
Every living thing hides from the storm and watch in terror as the non-living suffer gracefully ...don't they? Every living thing........but you are not exactly living (or alive), are you? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _____________________________________________
I know, I know, I'm abnormally insane But what I can say? One could say I'm the first, and the last of my kind. I don't talk much this days, and even if I want to, no one would try So when Nature send me her visitors, well, I embrace them like a lonely child.
It's been thirty three hours since I last slept. And now, it's almost 2 am, and my nocturnal nature keeps me wide eyed. The storm I love so much is dwindling down to a mere drizzle Four more hours of being awake for no reason; it's a shame I'm still alive 6 am, do take your sweet time, I'll be lonely still whether or not you come to take my bloody eyes. I am not looking forward to today's sleep, and the daymares/bad dreams that will come with it.