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Javaria Waseem Nov 2014
The back seat of the old Chevy
and that familiar smell of cigar mixed with your scent
Stealing little moments in
the darkness of the night
as the sky lit up and danced
The faint taste of liquor
never felt so good before as it did
from your lips.
Short breaths,
sweaty hands,
whispers echoing.
It all took me to a place better than
the stars
where we collided
feeling mightier than the sky
that roared outside.
The beads of sweat rolling down your back
felt warmer than the
rain drops
that left a trail behind
on the steamy window.

The world outside seemed peaceful
for the thunderstorm
was felt inside.
Glitter Rain shimmers outside my lightning window

            and winds a dream—weather of dreams and nightmares,

            a reign of indifference somewhere in between the windowpane,

            the widow pain, and the windy plain—to whisper possibilities

            into the nice night of nostalgic friends, wishing friendships hadn’t

            ended, knowing it had to end, glad it did end, ignoring the ending

            of all this time, ticking away in the timely thunderstorm of the



night.

...

Viktor Aurelius read four of my poems on Whispers in the Dark Radio, a horror poetry show.

...
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
Oh to say it so dearly, It was a great show.
I stayed out and watched it for a good hour.
The wind had come out of some hidden pocket. Like a thief in the night,
it scurried out excitedly through the screen door flying shut behind it,
and looking at the stark line drawn across the horizon;
a wall of cloud with so distinct an edge of gray, and at the same time
so thin
as to see the shadow
blue sky on the other side.

It was just a sheet.
The wind like a blanket,
energy surged, and the blood pumped a little faster at it's touch.
Then leaves began swirling,
as if fleeing for cover around the legs.
sweeping over to the porch,
while the canvas of clouds pitched its ever looming tent.
On over to get a plain view of my street lamp,
watching the tree's now twisting like spaghetti;
branches twisting in ways you would expect to break them,
all with a humdrum pitter-patter of rogue raindrops,
accompanied by that shrill electric thickness...
that makes your skin simmer, your mind hum, and your eyes glow.

The light of the streetlamp showing all the rain more clearly,
and all at once coming like a horde en masse down a hill.
Someone had given the signal,
and so it began.
The floodgates were released.
The opera had begun in earnest, with it's effects and sounds, lights, action!
The foreplay had given way to the full force of wetness.

In the pith of the light it looked as though the lamp was now a fountain.
The lightning being so evenly dispersed, the sky like a screen to see a stroboscopic chaos, so serene.
The wind and rain so perfectly mixed,
so perfectly so to syphon off a single breath of mist upon the face.
I stood like a boy of six in a parade.
Enthralled by the power, the nonchalance, and the purity of might.
Humans and animals, cars and bicycles, birds and branches, all pulling a hasty retreat.

I watched and watched, and watched more, and never got bored, only a little damp.
I came in and went up to the bedroom above the porch and lay on my window cloud
and drowsily watched the show in a bubble, til the end.

Nothing lets me see so clearly like a good rain.
People who wish for sunshine everyday are idiots.
Just sat and watched it... so glad I did.
To the thunderstorm I used to love,

you pounded me, beat the windows with your fists,
brought the rain down with your thunderous roar.
rarely, it would hail, and the melting ice would
gleam down the streets, still soiled from the
summer day before you came and took over all daylight.

A severe thunderstorm warning went into effect around
2 a.m. - estimating to begin at 4 and
end at 9.

You came at 5, and it never ended.

While the rain once glistened, it now stings my skin,
crushes my thighs, squeezes my hip, compressing
pressing presser tightening twisting the calf, stabbing
the spine.

I am not in control.

The purple crush of your swirling eyes is
a rush of wind - a cold front in the summer
mist - the shattering of a two-hundred-year-old tree.

I saved butterflies from you only for them to suffocate in their cages. The rags indoors, the frames, they never stopped you - only the rain
prevented your fire.

You are right when you are gone.

The road is a blurry mirror, aging eyesight in the wet darkness.
Watch a reading on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nR4jcdzhas
Most find the crash to be a nuisance
Not me.
I find an unusual serenity in the calamity.
An undeniable calm in the chaos.

As for the flash
Well it adds a little mystery
To the life I live full of misery.

Rain runs down windows
Replicating the tears down my face.
Reminding me I'm not alone
In this desolate place.

Thunderstorms are therapy
Designed to drown out our thoughts
And provide inspiration
For artistic creations
honey ashes Sep 2014
i am considering the smell the rain leaves in its wake. who is to decide the line between peace and entropy? between serenity and destruction? you’re just mist in the mountains now, but that doesn’t change the fact that you made me realize why they name hurricanes after people. you made me realize i can never draw the line between the calm and the chaos because my hands are shaking and they have not stopped since you left. but humor me this; where does it all come from? my surroundings are caving to tumultuous doom and yet i’m senseless in a dark room because you still haven’t called. the thunder is shaking my tables and chairs but the ringing in my ears has filled all empty space. I AM SCREAMING IN A VOID AND YOU ARE GONE, YOU ARE GONE, YOU’VE SLIPPED RIGHT THROUGH THESE FINGERS THAT LOVED YOU AND HELD YOU AND WANTED TO CHANGE THE WHOLE WOrld just so you’d have a dry spot to sleep. my soft cheeks are damp but that’s all white noise now; subtle and unremarkable, but it helps me fall asleep most nights. they say insomnia is like perpetual motion but the only subject i’m interested in studying anymore is the state of your fingertips and why they haven’t been tracing my skin, in places only the warm wind of clouds touches now, but all they do is leave me tortured. i feel restless at best. and yes; these days the rain seems to know me better than i myself. but don’t find comfort when you pull back your shades tomorrow morning, and all signs of natural disasters have (temporarily) subsided. for first i am in the storm; the **** eye of the hurricane; and when it’s had enough,

then the storm is in me.

-*k.c.
r0b0t Aug 2014
It's a dark morning
Today
I can smell the ozone
It's a dark
Morning
Today
I can smell the pavement, the pure city
inside me, as if
As if I can be cotton
But it's a dark morning
and I should have been asleep
and I'll remember those storms til the day I die
til
the dark I die
I'll remember
that
dead morning
that dark mourning
like the pouring rain
dark morning.
unwritten Aug 2014
one of the first times we talked
there was a thunderstorm going on
at your end,
all the way on the other side of the world
(or so it seemed).

perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts --
that i would become enthralled by you,
just as i am
by thunderstorms,
and that you, the storm itself,
would wreak beautiful havoc
upon all that i was
and change me forever.

i was oblivious:
unknowing of the fact that soon
i would be in the eye of the storm --
a ship being beaten down by your
catastrophic flashes of blinding lightning
and the roaring waves you would leave behind.

perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts.
but i didn't.
i was blinded by the serenity
that so often comes before chaos.

the calm before the storm,
if you will.

but like i said,
i am enthralled by thunderstorms,
so maybe that is why,
even after the calm ended,
i still loved every second
of our twisted downpour
and didn't so much mind
the empty hull i'd become.

my darling --
you were the storm
and i was the ship
that slowly burned
with every strike of lightning.

(a.m.)
quickly positing this with horrible wifi hello. i also hate the ending of this poem but I'm too lazy to change it.
Sarah Aug 2014
The sky splits tearing paper limbs from their comfortable contortion
making known the predisposed discontent and conjuring discord to serve a new generation.
Flooded veins pouring out of open wounds,
never to dry up until soaked entirely through
the constant patter of stagnant repression crafting static regression,
drown in cheap memory
repulsive harmony
forced contention
may it all return seeking revenge on a lifeless fragment
a fraction of the initial structure.
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