Thoughts come like rain on a day you were looking for sun.
Sun to warm your ragged mind, to sear your old familiar pain with warmth.
But rain instead, who knows why?
Harsh, pummeling rain that causes banks to overrun and hauntings freely flow.
In they rush, they lie in wait.
A word, a memory, the least thing.
A day you were gifted when all was well,
Or so you thought.
Some hours, who knows why, the thoughts gouge until you almost bleed.
You can't prepare.
The thoughts punish you for having them.
by Nina Naomi (a sort of a poem)
No comments:
Post a Comment