The roaring, pummelling thunder.
Striking, lashing.
Sweeping, crashing.
I fall beneath its onslaught,
Quivering,
Shaking,
Red eyes streaming.
I prostrate myself on the cold, cold floor.
The rage above me
Brandishing its sword.
It strikes.
Again.
Again.
I lie weeping,
My youthful innocence
My only protection
Against cold, cold circumstance.
I look up into the face of the storm.
I whisper its name.
Father.
I won't go into what prompted this poem. Suffice to say, my childhood wasn't great for various reasons. Many things, however, made me who I am today, and I quite like that person. I used the things I faced in my past to make me, hopefully, a better father and husband. A better person. As such, I wouldn't change anything.
From darkness can come light, right?
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Pieces of Me
PoetryPoetry can give an insight to the soul of the writer. Or the reader. Poetry can touch on the feelings you don't want to admit to, and those you wish you could celebrate. On life. On time. On what it is to be you. Here's Pieces of Me, a poetic intros...