One minute, sunlight—
the next, a freight train of old pain,
unseen, but crashing in anyway.

A quiet talk turns into a storm,
shaken bottle bursting,
fears flooding like tidal waves
that logic left behind.

I drown in ghosts no longer real,
a mess unraveling fast
then just as quick, the sky clears,
leaving me breathless,
waiting for the calm to stick.

Small sparks ignite these fires,
and all I can do is ride it out—
hope the storm breaks before it breaks me.

Typing this, a lifeline
proof that I’m still here,
still fighting the silence
that unemployment and trauma
try to drown me in.

I’ll be okay. I have to be.

---

I think I'm starting to understand why artists do vent art. Doing this helped take the edge off over a week ago.