There is outrage.
Pain on open display,
as blood paints
the driveway.

There is economic
uncertainty,
so many people
struggling
financially.

There is fear
that the enemy is here
and it is not
a person or a group
but a virus.

There is tension,
built into the system
causing chaos
and destruction;

A boiling ***
that will not stop
till the top
pops off,
as loud as
the bullets shot
by cops.

Pressure building,
from painful feelings,
sorrow spilling
into to verses
as the poet
converses
with himself.

Writing all about
the madness that is
all around,
as the pipes
prepare to burst. cont.

Lines of words
release the valve
to let all of
that steam out,
and he is free
to go about
his daily duties.

Until, the gravity
of everything
start pressing down,

and he repeats the process
to stop this
from completely
crushing his
entire being.