See my words as a storm.
I have no complete form.
I wish to break every single norm.
My words are a triumphant tempest
which cultivates lands, not of the blandest
nature, my words come east, not west.
Where oriental natures lie, I am thunder,
which has not a care for any blunder
I may make. My words are a tundra.
No fruit comes from my set of immense winds,
my words come only through my sins,
where no doubt there linger millions.
My words are a haunting hurricane.
Hushing all who read into an architecture of pain.
There is no wrong in my disdain.
Words are my winds, and I am the eye of the monsoon.
Drawing images that make you swoon for noon,
I bring ashore treasures of my emotional misfortune.
