I am a volcano disguised as a mountain.
I used to be active, erupting in a fit of rage without notice. Destroying those around me, even the ones I hold most dear.
I have slowly become dormant. I have painted a beautiful facade. I appear strong, steadfast, solid and safe.
The truth is I am still a volcano. I am hollow, unstable, ready to explode at any second.
My feelings, my magma, are churning and turning beneath my sturdy exterior. I am constantly under pressure. The gravity of the world presses against me. I am in a continuous battle with myself, trying not to explode. Trying not to destroy those around me.
Occasionally the pressure becomes too much, and my magma pours out of me. The people that have made their home around me are always shocked when I erupt.
I cry to them "what do you expect when you build your life on a volcano?" To my surprise a small few have chosen to rebuild, choosing to live on my volcano knowing full well I just may destroy everything they have built again.
One day I will become extinct, then I will truly be a strong, sturdy mountain, and a safe place to call home.
This is not a poem, but it felt poetic. This unedited, straight out of my journal. Raw and true. Someday I will turn it into art, but for now, it will remain a rant from an anxious over-thinker.