Dark and windy night,
gives way to gray untidy dawn,
the storm outside is tired, her anger spent
beating on my door with weakened fists
and barely veiled contempt,
she needs to sleep and does not want to play,
but she will have her way until the very last,
the worst of her is past, the light will soothe her cries,
dispatch her to her cot,
to think about the things that she has done,
and we may have a peaceful day,
until she throws another one

As much as I love storms, I can't help but cower under the clouds
Longing for some sort of bright light to push it away
So I bring down lines and lines upon these weary skies
Silent fog that settles bt atleast now I know fora bit this light will stay And I can focus on which is the right way
Even if it slowly kills me, day won't always seem like night

Everyone has  bad days.
Sometimes, the day turns vicious,
Making one feel
Like hiding from the world  a bit .


Sometimes, we shed tears,
Condemn the day,
But it's like a storm:
Intense, alarming,
Yet always with an end.

Someday the clouds will break

Smoke in the sunset
Something like a blinding haze

Surely it means nothing to me
Sinking slowly to my soul
Steeping in the rough cut end of things

Reaching for Gloria.

North Texas is a land of storms and in 1970 so was our living room,
and when you're 6 years old you can’t just pick up and leave town.
Your stuck like a fence post in the middle of tornado alley.
The rain is going to come down hard.
The winds may knock you down, cause your heart is a trailer park.
That is just the way it is!
So, you learn to pray and sometimes look the other way,
like the eastern window of an old house.
Then no matter how you try part of it follows you
down the road are pieces of your past.
Like remnants of a tornado’s destruction and you find yourself sitting
back in that same old place even if it is just for a little while.
I look back and I see that 6-year-old sometimes and find she is not that far away.
Just another rain storm away from remembering
what not to say.

Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.

Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms - which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.

But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.

We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by, dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.

Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time. Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby

This world will throw you storms,
Sending shock waves to your knees.

They'll make you taste sugar.
Then watch you as you crumble.

They'll stake their claim.
Decide your name.

Tell you.
You're good.
Just not good enough.

Dreams you hold dear.
Will die out faster than any star.

This world will teach you.
Your blood, sweat and tears.

It's the only way.
You can live to survive.
Just for another day.

In a world that was rigged.
From the day you were born.

This world can be cruel.
That is why it needs you.

To shine the way.
You were always supposed to.

This world will take everything.
So you mustn't give your dreams away.

When they tell you.
To stop looking at the sky.
Do it anyways.

This world ran on dreams.
Long before reality.

At my lowest,
I sit in silence
and bleed nothing but truth.

I peel pain open
like fruit with no skin
bitter, soft,
so achingly sweet.

I trace every crack in my chest
like ancient runes,
looking for the shape of love
in the wreckage.

And when I find it
trembling, ugly, beautiful
I see myself.

To feel this much
is a kind of holiness.
To ache for something
is to prove it mattered.
To shatter for love
is to live.

Even if life is chaos,
I still choose.
I still want.

And maybe that’s enough
to want so deeply
that the wanting alone
makes me real.

It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.