The tea kettle whistles-
I feel its relief.
My own blood boiling
so violently
the tea is cold to me.
Sipping steaming tea
to cool my burning soul.
Fighting-
Preposterous preponderance-
Witless whim-sickle wiles
show styles of-
Deceptive discrepancies
in a cool calm
quagmire of queries.
Intensity subdued by ethos-
Small pockets of heat erupting
from mountains of flesh called-
pores.
Stores of tears dwelling,
So subtly at the ready-
corner of my eye.
The ardor climbs-
I cannot-
contain.
Listen to the steam-
Scream
from my ears.
Finally time-
pour me out.