How quickly we’d
Jump in front of the gun.
I paint the worst scene first
Filled with paranoid colours
From scrawlings of sketched contours.

Is it the past that haunts
Or is it the currents
That surge us forward.

What is it
That keeps you rooted
In storms?

If I told you
I feared your ghosts of trauma
That it follows me in the day
And haunts me in my bed
Would you be able to
Just be gentle
For a bit.