Stone clouds tell her story.
Today was dry before grey stomped
I wish I was her. She reminds me
how to cry like my pupils are perfect moons,
ten thousand drops on the prick
of every sharp edge .
She shapes me,
she wraps me in her moisture
when I am filth, then leaves.
I forget. I fly around memory
and time like
it still exists,
like one floor leads to
the next floor,
like today isn’t meant to say anything,
for silence underwater,
my big head under
breathing out every last danger
until my old body is
roaring grey stone,
floating in over head,
reminding someone to fly around
like they still exist.
Posted on July 19, 2013, in Poetry and tagged clouds, death, Depression, drowning, emptiness, experience, grey storms, grief, heartache, journal, letting go, life, Literature, loneliness, Memories, mental disorder, Mental Health, mental illness, mourning, pain, poetry, rain, sadness, sorrow, Suicide, thunderstorms, Weather, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 5 Comments.