teapot
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Inside me is a
boiling brass kettle
screaming on a hot stove.
As if a frantic teapot
Could be contained
without spilling over.
As if the shrill cry of a
steaming pot bawling
I'm a teapotwarm and boilingboiling so much that my top is poundingpounding me until I can no longer feel the burning sensationthis rapid raceand unwilling face looks at menot wanting to touch me
Through writing I can allow my words to come out freely,
the walls that shut me in can come down.
I feel the pressure leaving,
like a screeching teapot
taken off the flame.
I see what I write,
