i passed a man with a storm in his eyes
   spitting grey and blue
he cursed whichever demons
   had taken over his mind

he seemed oblivious to his surroundings
  and to me
but he did walk with a purpose
as if walking fast & furiously
would cast out the pain
that consumed his head

i watched as he suddenly
   struck himself, violently
stumbling back a bit
   he paused
then shook his head and laughed
his stride slowed
                             way
                                      down
he whistled
glanced at the sky
   and then at me
he winked, turned on his heal
and was gone.

   it was that simple.

i’m broken
the way every writer is
broken and the words fall
out of the cracks.

a storm grips my soul
   clouding hope
     encircling it with darkness
     & torrents of sadness
pulling me deeper & deeper
   suffocating me with despair
and holding me down
   with fingers of pain.

So often he'd go to bed
with ink on his hands;
hands that were always trembling
in fear of the monstrosities
they'd pressed onto innocent paper.

He wondered
why people deemed his creations
beautiful,
when all he could do
was twist and bend and morph his words
into shivers down their spines,
and haunting echoes in their minds.

His way with them was anything
but beautiful.

Staring at his stained hands,
he, too, wondered,
why he was made
such a skilled wielder
of the deadliest weapons.

eras una tormenta,
y yo, era un pequeño pájaro
asustado por tu trueno,
luchando para volar en tu viento,
sin lugar seguro para aterrizar.

gold as the sinking sun
the cloudy sea,
burnt to the colour of autumn leaves,
floods with blue.