From inside great thunderstorms

 
Playing catch-up, part three:
Prompt #10: Mad Libs
(I'm using the Walid Bitar poem)

From inside great thunderstorms(don’t call them friend)
hearing is smaller than usual,
as are the words that force it. Inside great thunderstorms,
unlike arguments, are not catapults
and the people grasp enough
to lie to (at least the mistake isn’t small),
have no temper or fingerprints when they sit beside
their falsity and don health, pretending
to be an empty glass in a cold climate. The scenery
sharpens like a papercut in my ear.
It brews itself, and I hear of this
a harsh curve you can color with the whites
and marbles of fireplaces back home, bred otherwise
invisible as the price of empathy.
An enemy, too, is invisible; why are
you feeding it at your rose, growing
it into discomfort?
Leave it alone; throw me a little to
the sky; people shave their heads
into animosity here; I
remain (on the outside) nonplussed.
_________________________________________________

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Circa Survive, Always Getting What You Want