Storm

Secret storms come over my bones
just to break them by wind and ice.
The swells break upon my skin like tiny
pixels of sand upon a shore, spread as far
as the eye can see. My skin melts at the forceful
heat of the swell, at the rush of water against force
inside of earth and pixelated dirt.

There are moments when all the debris
seems to drown me in my own heap of life.
The days pass on as more swells come
crashing down upon my stolen heart,
my swolen soul and my sweltering heap of a life.
At times, life is too much to bear, too much
to hold upon my tiny shoulders that bear too many
scars already. The storms of youth are still
present among the days I live.

Why is it so heavy, so deep, so tragic, dramatic?
Life was not meant to be Hell,
yet so many days, the fires burn so brightly in my mind
that it seems my days are that of Hell,
bright,
dying,
warm,
and finally,
dead.