The Storm.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Rain.
Booming, crackling, falling.
I am the same.
Tears fall,
Soul mimicking the storm.
This window is not a window.
It is a mirror.
I watch myself toss and turn.
I’m grey, bleak and foreboding.
Will I ever rest?
👁 3💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.