...I lose control.

Like a volcanoe that's centuries old,
I unexpectedly blow.
The only thing my spitting rage does
is singe your ironed clothes.
I fight not to cry,
*it gets annoying sometimes.
I can't stop my body from beginning to shake with rage;
though my inability to cope seems more like an e a r t h q u a k e
I choke on my comeback,
like there's this thing stuck in my throat, holding me back.
I don't know why I can't just puke a rainbow of colourful vocabulary on your boiling head.
How immature,
let me rephrase my poor attempt at a metaphor.
While my love & hatred continue to co-exist,
you can enjoy my silence; your bliss.