Thunderstorms are so calming

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I can’t sleep
I don’t want to eat or watch TV
Like the darkness, I stare at silently
I cannot be calm
I worry about everything
To what’s wrong with my dad to
what’s wrong with my mom.
No end to this infernal nightmare
I hate it.
My mind refuses stillness
The hollow of my stomach declines my
plea to calm
I distract my self as best I can
‘Claire De Lune’ helps, but I think
it just puts my mind on hold.
It stores all my fears for a while
then it’s like a dam breaking
Everything rushes back and hits me full
force.
Sitting on my bed, soft, creamy sheets
remind me
I should probably help with the laundry
but then I think again I have to sleep
I have school tomorrow and act like I’m
fine and broadcast a smile.
I can’t now, scorching tears brim in my eyes
Why?!
What is wrong with me?
All I want is for one night
one night that I can sleep for more than
three hours
Lie down Marina!
Close your eyes!
Count another thousand sheep!
I fall asleep after a half hour
I jerk up and struggle for breath.
it was just a dream, calm down
it’s all over now.
My nightmares are not something I ever
want to live.
Nothing but my every fear
suffocating me.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling fan
My younger sister mumbles; staggers up
when she hears me crying
I hate when she catches me at my
most vulnerable moments.
She whispers calming words
I have a 12-year-old guardian
from my 15 year old nightmares
I never tell my friends what I’m thinking
I don’t need anyone else thinking I’m
crazy or crazier
Why confirm their theories?
I’m a jokester even to myself
what must everyone else think?
I know they whisper about me—
Do they think I am deaf too?
Do they think I’m going to hesitate to tell them to back off?
I smile then roll over
It’s 5:30am time to get up
I look out my window
And I see the sun rise again
Who cares what they think?
My parents love me even though
I’m sort of peculiar—
Or you could maybe say a bit bipolar?
So what if my thoughts are a bit impulsive?
Normal people are dreary.
Sane people are way too control.
Predictable people are boring
call being ‘different’ a characteristic of mine
I am still here
My heart still speaks
My legs still move
My brain still works
So I have one less thing to care about
They don’t have to worry about me being crazy
They should worry about me being better then them.
sleep is for geeks I think
and I grab my notebook and begin to write poetry
Finally calming the storm that is my mind—(last line by David Cordova)





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