People talk about Tornado Alley,

The part of the U.S where I live.
They act like tornadoes touch down every week in May through October,
Like storms go through every other week.
Like everyone’s not scared and they’re always calm.

The truth is,
Tornado Alley’s not like that.

Tornado Alley is worrying
When a tornado touches down only five miles from your house,
Your family’s in the basement,
Wondering if everything’s all right,
And if your house will be damaged.

Tornado Alley is praying a storm will pass,
The ever-looming threat of a supercell,
Swirling clouds above your roof,
The sky a nasty green and purple.

Tornado Alley is taking everything you have for granted,
Then being scared when it’s threatened.

Tornado Alley is knowing tornadoes exist,
But being thankful that you’re not in San Francisco,
Or Hawaii, Florida, the coasts.

Tornado Alley is flat plains and wide open spaces,
Not being afraid of a storm,
But of what lurks when the beginning is over.

The fire in my belly
the boots on a dancefloor
the felt hat i wear.

Texas is my home
no one can take it away
lone star state of mind

Allan, Waylon, George.
my idols growing up.
Texas is home

frio river, gulf coast
fishing in summer
barbequing in spring.

my home sweet home
is the country music
in the truck

my home away from home
is in the shop
with my brother and a welder

Blue flowers
blossom freely
bouncing silently
Between fresh blades

Bees fly busily
sensing
Feet
spring forward
beneath
blue skies

Soles
sink firmly
Feeling Blessed
by simple
Flowing breezes

Rock’n’roll radio died
Between gasoline riffs
I love Texan poker
She smiled with classic liquors
Realise that I want your lips
Gamble success where strangers bleed
Roadside taboo
Lay bare, please,
I want to give you one hot date

Full moon on a
Friday night,
sipping whiskey and
watching sky,

Howl, howl,
at the light,
The wind is pure,
Conditions right.

Southern Comforts I
hold dear,
Seasons won't
affect us.

Peace and harmony,
right here,
In the heart of
Texas.

Light my smoke,
unleash my dog,
A friend is cooking
his dad's wild hog.

Sipping whiskey,  and
making fog,
Full moon on a
Friday night.

A little more ice,
A little less beer.
A little more light,
A little less fear.

These Southern Comforts
I have here,
These friends who sway,
Around me.

The whiskey flows,
The fire glows,
These guys start talking
about old "hoes,"

And everyone knows,
how that **** goes,
Full moon on a
Friday night...

Despite living in San Antonio my entire life, I had never seen inside the Alamo; The same way you said you used to drive around my neighborhood on your way home from work every Sunday, but never inside.

If you or I had turned in, though, I'm sure we wouldn't have liked the view very much. Crooked, outdated, houses lay out along uneven roads, paved decades ago; The ghosts of those who had died fighting a battle that seems so irrelevant and far away, trapped inside heavy stone walls. What was the point?

They're just buildings. Another sight, seen.

How small the must the world be for us to pass each other in our day-to-day life, ignorant to what the future holds?
How many times had I seen you out and about, without ever longing for a deeper connection?

If it wasn't for meeting you, I still wouldn't have went inside the Alamo. You would've kept driving around my neighborhood every Sunday night.
We both would've been unaware of the ghosts that reside behind these heavy walls.

Maybe I would've found a reason to go, and maybe you would've too. Curiosity? Boredom? Perhaps we would've ran into each other. (I like that thought).
Maybe, at that time, instead of embracing these ghosts, they would've scared us away for good.

Either way, I would've never gotten to know you, and that's more terrifying than any ghost we could find in each other.