#emotionalweather
Everything is so terrifying for the introvert going outside—
the overthinker rehearses all of their prestored sentences,
Sitting on impeccable lines with no trace of uncertainty,
but ever so certain that it’s what the ear wants to hear.
The hopeless romantic knows the picture of a good love
story, but can’t seem to paint that picture for themselves—
Because imagination never quite imitates real emotion.
_And it’s irritating._
But haven’t I been them all? A single character playing
too many roles— the pencil in my story, trying to sketch
out the scenery of a better life. The pen, trying to write
out a good script that fits in the ink folds of my cerebellum.
My skin wears the wrinkles of time, bruises like an overcoat—
a weathered face, but it’s body has no spring in its step.
I’ve been depressed. But when you’re made to grow up too
fast, to keep pace with the world, what else do you expect?
Still, don’t expect me to be anything less than my level best.
Elevated fears go up, while my hope quietly goes down.
Yet on the upside? I stopped pretending to flip my frown
upside down. Some days I’m up. Most days I’m so down.
But I’m not always down— just holding onto the little hope
I find in creation; beauty painted out from my frustrations.
Like the weather, my mood keeps shifting. And whether
you’re caught in a long winter after a short summer,
Don’t worry— _it’s all just a passing season._
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 4:58 PM UTC
The smell of rain under my breath – clouds
in my chest; a storm of words heavy as perfumed
scent. Sent out to face the quests I half-meant –
awkward friend requests; expecting you to stay
in character, little as far as rewards go,
“let’s just take it slow.”
But how are we so quick to break a heart, to bring
down a character? The occasional monster —
or many; no point checking reviews; the question
of criticism is never an _if_, only _when_.
Hope is for anyone, but not for everyone –
hopeful romantics, hopeless fanatics, hoping
without action; life falls away from us piece by piece,
like rain. The smell of wet soil, the rise of humidity;
our moods changing with whoever’s around—
false humility dressed as weathered wisdom.
The weather of man is so unpredictable.
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
Two shots ready— bullets clean, a pretend ***
A dream pulled back like a slingshot, stretching
me a little farther than prior attempts.
Bright hopes frighten some people, like horses
bucking at fire. Most days I’m unstable, living
in a world infected with love bites. So, I wear
repellent now, exhausted by mosquito wars.
My thoughts spin hurricanes, my heart keeps
time in storms. Time is always confiscated
when you try to buy it with dreams someone
else sold you.
Still, I want to live in someone’s thoughts—
a lady letting me move in early, into the quiet
apartment of her mind. I hope her stairs carry
a lot of stories, and remember my footsteps.
Because two shots in, shooting my shot, my
hands still shake from the _Recoil of Yearning._
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 3:04 PM UTC