Doubt is the stroke of a match.
Am I here or just waiting out disaster?
There is no flame.
Doubt is second-guessing the present.
Am I suppressing myself for more time?
Doubt flickers, until it sparks.
Why do I do this to myself?
I'm a bunny running from invisible wolves.
I'm a mouse scurrying to find its home.
Branches of tree shiver in potential cold,
a storm that's brewing against the horizon—
It turns leaves to ash.
The forest is on fire.
The forest is on fire!
Wind becomes clustered thoughts to temper flames.
Is it too late? I spiral.
My legs of flight are my enemy disguised,
ruminations are the nightmares of consciousness.
Where did I go wrong?
There's nothing here.
No matches.
No fire.
No spark.
As I breathed anxiety,
the only flame that was burning,
was around the vines of my head
beating chaos down to my heart.
Forecast: 20% Chance of Rain
YOU ARE READING
It's Raining Outside
Poetry[Completed] 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃. I don't know how else to say this, but... 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬; 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧�...
