A Stormy Day, A Stormy Life

Rain pounds away and the thunder pounds louder still.
I sit on a an old wooden chair staring out the window in an empty room.
I cringe. I yearn for the storm to cease. The walls are pulsating and it's getting harder to breath.
Three. Calm down, I think to myself. How many were there? Eight? I hope I find what I'm looking for before I reach eight.
Perhaps not. I suppose that such luck would be expected. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe--

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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