The storm inside doesn't care
if I sleep, or eat, or breathe;
it only wants out — wants shape,
sound, a voice.
So I write.
I turn thunder into ink,
torrents into syllables
that drip softly onto paper.
Words come wild —
sometimes brutal,
sometimes gentle,
always necessary.
I trap the storm
in stanzas and paragraphs,
bind its fury in raging ink,
while I go on breathing
through a pen, just to keep
from drowning.
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