The sky is pretty
The kind of pretty that makes you wonder if it ever gets tired of being pretty
So pure in all its blueness
Specked with abstract shapes of cotton white,
When you catch it on the right day
Perfection.
Heaven.
It's the kind of view that turns heads,
As it always will
It's beautiful, or so you think.

Little do you know when the clouds are full
Only when it is too late, do you realize that the sky is at its breaking point
Those effortless pretty puffs of white,
Soon turn gray in the midst of illusion
As the sky seems to shade itself over in various depths of black
Still though, everything is fine
Or so you think.

Soon enough, though, the roaring spills over
Crackling and howling fill the peace of the beauty that only a moment ago was bliss to your eyes
The sky cries,
Pouring
Overflowing
Sobbing into the earth
The lightening is flashing it's warning sign
Things will get ugly
Sirens blaring
Signaling the inevitable twister that's upon the earth now
Hundreds of miles per hour, the winds go
Tearing through every town and city
Taking up whatever is unable to fight against the strength of the fit
And out of nowhere, it disappears
Gone.

The sky begins to lighten up
The sun peaks out over the mess,
Shining light upon all beneath it
The clouds move out,
And replacing them comes those cotton-candy-like structures of pure white
The sky returns to its flawless, soft blue
And once again it's perfect.
Heavenly.
Beautiful.
For now, that is

It's not about what you see on the outside
Because secretly, everybody's fighting a battle you can't see
And it's bound to break through,
When you least expect it.
Beauty runs just as deep as the pain
Prepare for the storm you can't see