My Personal Tempest, the Imperfect Snowstorm

When I have nothing else, and when my life is out of order

I hold on fiercely to a simple notion: that I am, and always will be

A swirling storm, a blizzard in the heat of summer, of emotion

and past experiences that build who I am and what my life has meant

to me and those who I can call friends, allies, supporters.

 

The blizzard of my life has been biting, cold, dangerous to the touch,

filled with a dark huddle of clouds, who each take their turn to block the sun

from my view, forcing me to see the light in other ways and make my own path

to trudge along in the coldest of winds. These powerful gusts move each little flake –

each little experience I have had, all unique in their beauty and harsh cold – far

away from where they were meant to fall, forcing them to accept a new position

in my life.

 

The flakes are ones of painful separation, losing those who called themselves friends

But weren’t really friends, losing my cousins as they turned their backs on us,

my family to survive alone in the cold, my family to try and move on when all we can

think of doing is breaking down in tears. We fight to find happiness, but all we can

think is how wrong the world is. We hold on to each other tightly, and I drift farther

away. I am a black sheep and cannot think to connect with the rest of my herd.

 

My own sorrows stem from the roughest of the storm, the pounding of hail.

When I was young, too young to see, I was taken, I was locked in by he-who-was-a-friend,

an evil liar filled with malice, who threatened to end…my life.

If I spoke a word of what he forced me to do, if I said anything at all, I was in danger.

How could I connect with my family, if I was a stranger? I could not be one of them,

Not really. I was too far apart and too afraid. Too afraid. Too afraid.

 

I went on, hoping to forget, hoping to never think again, but then, a miracle.

The hailstorm ended. He-who-hurt-me confessed himself, on accident, and my family then knew.

I was ashamed, but I was so relieved. My herd did not hate me as I thought they would,

instead they gave me support, loved me, but it wasn’t enough.

The storm continued.

 

The clouds became menacing, the torrents of snow encircling, and I was trapped

in a world of my own making, of suffering without knowing why I suffer so much.

Of being so tired I cannot sleep, but wishing for an eternal end. Of being so drained

that I have no emotions to spare. Of being so alone that I cannot be around people.

 

How did the storm break? How did it clear? It was difficult, it took too much work,

but I found help, and I found healing, and then, of course, I found my supporters.

Those allies of mine support, offer release, and brought about the sun.

Though the snowstorm is still cold, though it still brings about snow, most often,

I can see the sun. I can see the graceful glittering glory of the flakes below my feet,

I can see the wonders of this sparkling world of light that seems to have come from a dream.

The host of snowflakes I experienced, each pain, each joy, brought about a beauty like no other,

and built a most unique landscape that is me. I am a blizzard, and I am proud of the storm.

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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Adney

 The phlebotomists are also responsible for collecting the blood and testing the bloods from the patients, prepare specimens for lab analysis, verify records, prick finger to take a blood, take essential signs and conduct interviews.  

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