I am not my demons
They are made entirely of me.

They are the cruelties I've suffered,
Presenting themselves like tornados through small towns.

Towns that don't seem like much at a passing glance,
But who's residents never doubt
The beauty and potential it holds
If only you stay long enough to notice it.

But how can anyone see the beauty in towns
That are forever being brought to ruins.
At the mercy of something as destructive
And unpredictable
As a **** tornado?