Every storm has an eye
But this certain storm
is in her eyes
Dark clouds fogged up her vision
a rain of tears flooded the lid
a sudden streak of light—
the lightning, perhaps,
flaunted; illuminating the abyss within
and there emerged her piercing scream
weaving through the gorging dusk—
which is a thunder of her own

And she spread her arms
as the night breeze kissed her face
she jumped; she fly
only to realize that
she's not an angel
nor a bird
nor a butterfly
and so she fell
yet amidst the free fall,
she unraveled her tangled knots
from there, she lost her pain
but she fell on the ground
like a fine drop of rain.

And the storm has ended.

Usually it feels like being under murky water. Very dark, a complete blur, unable to talk or you'll consume the ***** liquid. The inability to reach out because they can't see your form beneath the waves. You can't hear past the waters. no matter how hard you strain. Getting your legs tangled in the weeds below, pulling you in, pulling you in, pulling you in. With not much hope to let you breathe fresher air again.

But I hung on to that tiny thread of hope and I got better.

However, here I am. In a different environment yet I'm still struggling. This time it's like being in a cool, sandy desert. No sunshine, just stormy grey clouds. People would pop in now and then, asking me how I am. I would smile and tell them I'm fine through a grimace because I'm clutching my chest, it's like I'm breathing through corrupted lungs. Why is it so hard to breathe? Why is it so dark and gloomy? Why do I feel so terrible on the inside? Is this getting better??

-m.b

you and i are two different souls,
living on two separate worlds
that collided once
just to be parted
and never meet again.

Don't be scared, Love;
show me your scars.
Give me a piece of your soul,
and maybe a glimpse of your mind.

I could show you beauty,
without a field of flowers.
And an amazing high,
without the foul aftertaste.

Just let me in,
let me feel your pain.
I'll touch your soul,
and make you go insane.

the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.

Uncomfortable within this skin.
My joints complain
and muscles scream.

But people say, "It's normal.
It's more common than you think."

My mind in shambles.
Ideas incoherent
and thought processes
sluggish at best.

But people say, "It's normal.
It's more common than you think."

My emotions are in
total disarray.
I'm not happy
yet I'm not anything at all.

But people say, "It's normal.
It's more common than you think."

My insides twisting,
splitting.
Every grain and fibre
set on fire.

But people say, "It's normal.
It's more common than you think."

If this is normal,
I'm petrified with
the prospect of
what isn't.