This poem feels like someone trying to stand upright in the middle of their own storm, every thought hitting like lightning against a tired mind.

The comic‑book thunder at the start barely hides the truth the exhaustion of fighting yourself with bruised knuckles and no clear enemy.

The “emaciated inner child” being swept away is devastating, a reminder of how overwhelm can erase the parts of us that needed gentleness most.

There’s something heartbreakingly tender in the attempt to “conjure lifeboats of care” when the weather inside refuses to calm.

The shifting “synaptic atmospheric systems” capture how unpredictable the mind becomes when old wounds stir without warning.

Every version of the self ducking low to survive feels painfully real the quiet choreography of living with turbulence you never asked for.

The brain battering “better and badder selves” shows a raw honesty about inner conflict, spoken without shame or bravado.

The poem’s courage lies in admitting that sometimes all we can do is witness our own storms and hope they pass.

The memories, nightmares and distortions that strike out of nowhere feel like echoes of a past that still has claws.

And the closing fear of “never coming up with anything bright” reveals a longing for light that makes the whole piece pulse with humanity.