One-hundred and Sixty-two: Thunderstorm

This is my music. Thunderstorms under my skin,
warming a soft heart; a lost artist; the last thinker.
I step in puddles and smile. Silver and yellow bangles
bang against the keys of a door that’s always open.
Come in. I’ll dress you in worn clothes you’ve always
loved. Shove those doubts beneath the rug. Remember
that time you chipped your tooth on my kiss? This is
what it feels like all the time. This is the sound of what
you’re missing. I hold myself beneath the umbrella
of their tragic love story. If only I could store every thought;
I would be a plethora of epiphanies, a fountain of fire,
a fuming plume of wisdom. My words are perfect formulas
of emotion. I don’t know why but everything makes sense,
even though I understand nothing. I am stoking the
embers of a woman stirring. I am stroking the hand of
the life I always wanted. Everything is the same but
everything is different. I am a thunderstorm, purple
and grey, flickering like an old movie I know so well.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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