The Thunderstorm and I

Like the lightning in the sky,

surrounded by the eclectic pureness of the air,

I am angry.

My eyes are bloodshot from my tears,

as the sky is bloodshot from its tears .

Like the thunder rolling overhead,

I want nothing more than to storm about the world

and make people listen to my pain;

make them realise that this power, normally so docile and sane,

has its breaking point

and that in the end,

it will snap.

Unlike the lightning and the thunder,

I will not fade by morning,

though I wish I could.

While the mess they leave behind

will only be dew on the grass,

the mess I will leave behind

will be in the words I regret.

So, I suppose I’m nothing like the lightning and the thunder,

in the end.

The lightning is not angry,

and the sky is not crying,

and the thunder has nothing to express.

In my solitude I have forgotten,

had forgotten,

that I am alone, in a room in the dark,

with no company at all

but that

of a storm.

Author's Note

Thoughts, questions, comments?