My life has always been a tornado,
turbulence and turmoil twisting,
turning, tumbling to and fro –
nothing short of infuriating.
The sweeping winds never cease,
obstacles perpetually slamming into me.
I thought I was in the eye of the storm,
alas, I'm just another tree in the swarm.
Born into this, I have no haven.
I am but one of many a craven,
comfortable in chaos, unknown to different;
this tornado is, sadly, my only constant.
I know not the feeling of uncompressed breath.
The only foreseen solace is inevitable death.
My feet's never been planted firm,
I am a slave to this destructive pattern.
No control over the path I unwillingly follow.
Life's singular meaning is nothing, if not shallow.
A crooked vacuum this tornado creates,
my story is merely a series of heartaches.
Below me is no better than around me,
there I'll find even less of a guarantee –
for there is only ruinous earthquakes.
Everything always adds up to your mistakes.
YOU ARE READING
A Series Of Events
PoetryI've found that I am most comfortable in discomfort and chaos, as opposed to serenity and happiness; probably because this broken part of me is all I've ever known. love, turmoil, desperation, infatuation, betrayal, death. these poems will contain...
