Strange Stormfronts
KRAKA-KA-POW! and other
comic book sounds for a storm
Mental lightning striking
my slouched fighting form
Knuckles missing skin
lost in a litany of sin
I turn my energies within
where most of me's adrift
High tide of stimuli
floods my mind's eye
washing out to sea my
emaciated inner child
who stretched starvation
rations of humble pie
out for eons clinging to life
I conjure lifeboats of care and
try to will the weather nice
Unpredictable patterns of
synaptic atmospheric systems
Shift of strange stormfronts
Downright dangerous business
All vessels of my every aspect
ducking low to survive
hungry talons of turbulence
All I can do as my brain batters
my better and badder selves
is bear witness
So many of me in here at the
whims of whatever will strike
out of memory of trauma
or nightmares in flight
or distorted swaths of color
evaporating in direct light
like I'll never come up
with anything bright
This poem feels like someone trying to stand upright in the middle of their own storm, every thought hitting like lightning against a tired mind.
The comic‑book thunder at the start barely hides the truth the exhaustion of fighting yourself with bruised knuckles and no clear enemy.
The “emaciated inner child” being swept away is devastating, a reminder of how overwhelm can erase the parts of us that needed gentleness most.
There’s something heartbreakingly tender in the attempt to “conjure lifeboats of care” when the weather inside refuses to calm.
The shifting “synaptic atmospheric systems” capture how unpredictable the mind becomes when old wounds stir without warning.
Every version of the self ducking low to survive feels painfully real the quiet choreography of living with turbulence you never asked for.
The brain battering “better and badder selves” shows a raw honesty about inner conflict, spoken without shame or bravado.
The poem’s courage lies in admitting that sometimes all we can do is witness our own storms and hope they pass.
The memories, nightmares and distortions that strike out of nowhere feel like echoes of a past that still has claws.
And the closing fear of “never coming up with anything bright” reveals a longing for light that makes the whole piece pulse with humanity.