These mountains are mole hills.
You barge into my room screaming society’s latest mistake at the top of your lungs.
Dancing about in my tiny box of electric vision; you create a black death hysteria.  
With my attention constantly demanded you work yourself into a fury, spinning about until your feet catch fire.
You run in circles building fiery mountains of scared, with peaks that appear to be the highest high.  
You used to sprint through my mind setting fire to each and every flower until somebody put it out with the watery truth of an ocean.
Faucets of facts pour down the mountain of my memory and flood the plains of my mind now.
You can’t set my meadows on fire anymore.
Oh no, these mountains you built are just mole hills now.
Smoldering heaps of mole hills.