Naming Storms After Past Lovers

I’ve cracked the sky’s black heart 🖤 Calling forth thundering spring by tailoring in the howling winds. Clawing the Earth with Thor’s strength and drenching the souls with floods from the sea beds. While you sit in anger over your past lovers, I storm through and own the whole damn sky! There’s a reason why they name Hurricanes, Cyclones and Tornado storms after people. A destruction so beautiful, they make art out of it.

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How Does the Sky Feel After a Storm?

Her dark coffee-roasted eyes opened into a world that vessels magnificence, it wasn’t the other humans that created on her an impact of difference. She grew up to love the wind, seas and butterflies, she caught the moonbeams when she closed her eyes. She isolated herself from the ones that commanded words to be spoken, no one listened, and without a single word she left the locks broken. What she felt with the intensity of solitude, filled her with meanings that multiplied in magnitude. How could she explain the pure lightning in her veins, she wore a pendant of the world map on her chains. She was made to do incredible things you can tell, surviving within four walls was never her place to dwell. Things weren’t handed to her and that’s what made her wonderful, street by street she discovered what it meant to be powerful.

Mocking her tattoos, “art belongs on the wall”:
the ones she built around was her masterpiece and never let them fall. In the end its the things that kill you that make you feel alive, sitting on the edge of earth on a swing, she lived until 1hundred and five. Time taught the darling, of things that were loved bitter and sour, she travelled through the countries and living by the hour.

She wore a wing on her wrist, to her acquaintances she didn’t exist. She loved cities that made her feel like home, even on the bad days they embraced her and she never felt alone. Her lust for travel was deeply-chained, friending soils that didn’t constrain. She passed through it all like a ship in its form; Beautifully broken, this is how the sky felt after a storm.

Are you ready to take on the world with me?

I found her.
She was sitting on a bridge, wearing her armour, sword in hand
She smiled and said, “So You’re ready then?”
None of my manners nor finesse, Make up smeared;
What a beautiful mess!
The glint in her eyes never dulled, No one ever told her she wasn’t enough
She never doubted what her gut said, Her fiery wings had never seen a cage:
“Yes, Im ready!” I say with humour and determination
I take her by the hand with a silent vow not to lose her again, I’m HOME says my soul;
The me I lost has been found. I’m sorry it took so long: I’M READY NOW.

Punctuation used as brush strokes

I would paint if I were a painter
Maybe, someday, you could teach me.

In the meantime, words are my only refuge
Punctuations – my brushstrokes
The alphabets – my palette

They say a picture speaks a thousand words, but I have to learn to listen first.
Here I am spreading vague ink on paper, there you are making sense of colors and strokes
Shakespeare’s reality, Picasso’s logic, Wilde’s imagination;
Put them all together and you’ll know why I suffer from this mild hallucination.
This profound absurdity, one day we’ll both understand only to realise, we can’t.
Yet I hope in despair, in isolation
For us to stand under the same constellation.

I hope for wishes, seldom come true
I exaggerate, for time is only a word
Thrown around loosely by the keepers of it
Don’t deny me, its not everyday I ask.

Before chronology lets its secret out
Before they serve you your favorite ice cream,
Or maybe after.