Under my shirt is my skin

under my skin is my heart

under my heart, boiling water

an ocean above flames.

 

The fuel, words

a combination they call poetry

metaphors and similes

nouns adjectives exclamation marks

A shortage in verbs.

 

Under the speakers’ hearts, chameleons

changing color, blending in

to fit their surrounding

as many times as it takes.

 

But I choose to look up

above my heart

above the boiling ocean

lies my brain, clouds,

the filters.

 

When the poems get longer

and the fire, stronger

the ocean becomes vapor

 

Lightweight,

gracefully traveling upward

as it reaches its destination, the cool clouds

vapor turns water, clean and pure.

 

The brighter the flames,

the clearer the ocean,

the less hurtful and more meaningful

the words.

 

After all,

chameleons can’t swim in boiling water.