From storm, to storm, to storm,
thunder boom heads, to otherworldly flashings,
to rain pouring,
down
from
high
rhythmic cognitions clung to the wind's suspension,
dependent on pressured difference's motion,
if it stasised
I
would
drown
repeatedly, storms wind blown from the same direction,
scarce but intermittent were still sun shine moments.
Legend was
I brought the storms.
The legend only goes to show
how upset I was then,
when the Helianthella's petals were wilting,
twice dreamt of those petals in her hair
once before,
once regretfully,
regretting that deserving voice in me.
Worn emotions weren't spoken
in truth
it was tried to speak them away
hush-hush
not sharing to anyone my secret
I want
so damn bad to have
and instead
of being reverently tragic
as a story
columns in my head read
"Insufficient"
"Failure" and
"Stupid."
Hiccupped starting for tears were all
I knew,
Hiccupped from alcohol and drugs and all
I knew,
and there was little participation from me I just
watched the wind blow
voices inwardly went, from in to inner,
rare was the voice I prefer,
affectionate,
consistent was the voice I hate,
maddening.
I
lay
docile.
Clearness finally came
in a philosophy
to measure my life with self-defined
positivities,
self-definition being key because
all cognitions of 'undeserving me'
were given extraneously
with no appreciation for the real story
just money, fame and sex preoccupied,
a fantasy,
without character,
without sense.
My story-- if I had the time--
what story would I tell?
For now, I'll sit back
worryless with my friends
intimately adding
even though a loss
is a loss
and that last time
still feels like a loss.