Weather Within

Some days are rainy. Others are dry.
Some have three hours, others seventy-five.
Today the storm was on the inside.
The sky was bright and white — no harsh lights.
No sharp shadows. No warmth. No wind.
The bitter darkness rested within,
Not to be seen from the outside.
Still, no warmth. No wind.

The emptiness draws so much space,
Nothing else fits. Can you hear the hollow drops?
It rains. It pours. It drowns.
Outside, it’s bright and white.
The day goes on. The storm grows strong
Oscillating between hope and despair, okay, not okay,
Yay, nay, go, stay, try, cry, move, why?
Outside, it’s polite and kind.

Silent desperation spreads in stillness,
Unfinished thoughts flood my mind.
The more I learn, the less I know. The more I try, the less I do.
Each word on paper is another part of me no longer mine.
Until there’s nothing left, except for tomorrow’s forecast.
With winds of never written lines.
Heatwaves of mixed-up memories between rhymes.
And snow storm warnings echoing behind each breath.

Once filled with oblivious joy, raised by ignorance and urgency.
Loudly desperate to fit in, to stand out, to belong.
Inside, weathered, tempered, barely existing.
Clearly, global warming arrived, and times have changed.
The inside exists with a world of its own.
No longer ignored, rushed, or hushed.
It rains. It pours. It drowns.
Looking inside and out, the forecasts are rarely right.

©Mayra Gomes. All rights reserved.