You're clouds are puffy and white. They're soft so angels can sleep on them. They watch us from above. They see our happy times, our days filled with smiles. They see the rainbows we create when the raindrops stop falling, and the sun finishes playing hide-and-seek. But through it all, they see our bad days.
They see my clouds: dark, grey, and stormy. Rain falls heavily, splashing in a never ending crescendo. Thunder booms, echoing in it's anger. Lighting strikes fast, eager to electrocute anything in it's path. Sparks dance in my fingertips, filling me up with energy and power.
I will destroy anything in my way.
YOU ARE READING
Dandelions are Flowers
PoetryWhen you hear, "weed" you can't help but think of all of the bad things. But when you hear, "flower" you think of all of the good things. Why should dandelions be full of the bad, when they can be full of the good?
