I could write a poem on how the storm outside
Assaults my window panes with pain intended.
The wind brings life to the inanimate accessories of trees
Previously dropped to the ground like cigarette butts.
And I could say how this weather suits my mood
As if even though I’m sitting here in a towel after my bath,
There is chaos inside my mind far greater than any weather occurrence.
But that would be insane.
As if the world outside, where the purpose of the sky is to designate the rain
Shares any likeness to the mood I am in.
Or the life I lead.
How full of myself, to believe the crashing I hear from battering rain
Could compare to the need I feel to explode out of my own skull.
No.
Not ever.
Me and Mother Nature share no maternal bond.
Even if she could depict what way the wind blows, depending on the state I’m in
How could she know?
When I am merely here, in my towel, upon my bed.
Expressing no wrath compared to that outside.
Believing that the storms I see from my bed
Rival the storms inside my head.