My words are like a faucet.
The moment the handle turns,
they spill and spill,
just the right amount,
until I turn it off.

And when the faucet breaks,
they spill and spill,
filling the room up
to the very tip top,
leaving chaos in their wake.

A flood of words
that seem to ruin
everything they touch.

This faucet is broken.
It cannot be fixed.

This flood of words
will only ever
inspire hate.