The place that is the past we look at in our grasps. I hint at least the place that I have made mistakes. It’s a disease of all our places the connection and the faces. I’m grasping feeling torn and cannot feel that I belong.
Little wispy bits of hatred filling my stomach like cordial, distilled and ready to combine. A rising storm only controlled by minds and time and trying to be oh so kind. Respectful thoughts are given my mouth the words that do not give this cloud one little bit of a chance to rain on the crowd below.
Daggers in my eyes out at the end of my thoughts. I’m sinking in a lake now feeling my freedom dissipate. I can see my clouds. They are a hurricane. I cannot shout out my feelings that would likely give them a chance to feel free and release me. Or am I the only one who sees my hurricane and no one can grasp at it becoming true.
Daggers in my eyes, I feel every little thing in my lake. In time I will be the tempest.
I’m not going to be the one to drown in my own lake. I grasp the control. I’m going to let my tempest go.
The result won’t be pretty, and I may still look like I have daggers in my eyes, but I will start to truly be free.