They named a storm after me
-and I ain’t even flinch-.
Didn’t need no forecast to know
-I’d tear shit down and baptize it holy-.
Skies don’t cry — -they confess-,
palms breakdance, streets hum,
and the trees lean in like they know me
-like they remember-.
I was born with thunder in my chest,
-grew up where prayers sound like curses-,
where love had hands —
-and they weren’t always soft-.
You ever seen the ocean bow to a man?
You ever watch grief spin
-90 miles an hour with your name in its mouth?
I’m the still eye and the wild edge,
a whisper wrapped in wreckage —
-I kiss the ground, then snatch it from under you-,
just to remind you:
-nothing’s promised but the poetry in survival-.
Call me catastrophe if you want,
but say it slow,
-say it like you’re scared and grateful all at once-.
I don’t destroy — I reveal.
I show you what holds,
what breaks,
what dances
-even while drowning-.
And when I leave,
I leave silence like a sermon.
The kind that grabs your ribs
and whispers:
-was that wind…
or was that God
writing my name
on everything you thought
was untouchable?
