nothing about the weather

Warm spring mornings, conventionally and ultimately cooking me. The sun stings with a refreshing coolness although my eyes will proceed to sit a volume swelling to be held in place.
Which reminds me of this unknown urge of a little something I've met before but never revealed. Only shoved beside me as the minority to my good mood.
I suspect its communication from the cusp of the black hole where all unwanted feelings go. Yes, it speaks. It quietly roars. A roar I'll probably never be able to dissect to understand entirely but I can surely hear it.
I'll adapt to its language soon, and I'll learn the silent letters just so I don't have to deal with the realty I've apparently missed out on.
Sober or sober. 
Surpressing it all was never a reasonable excuse to turn around to a different
Turning around to another direction was hardly close to a guarantee, to any natural emotional therapy that I could recover entirely from.
A bad habit to press it downwards especially with the firmness of your palm. As you begin to trust yourself and your power, you'll soon be fooled and these god damn shivers will just rise back up. So you've discovered your power, you thought you were bigger than what you felt. So you walk and wait to sit where its safe but you're startled with the flood that has dunked you to show you that you can't run to escape.
Now you gotta scoop up with buckets amd you knoq you're hands are only toys now, and youre looking down, asking if I can do it again, if I can surpress this mess until it calls again.
You question time and you standardize what becomes normal or a ritual, or does learning to protect yourself from all your past trauma could ever become inevitable?