There once was a gal from Zumbrota
(A city in Minnemesota)
     Who drank in a bar
     And then got in her car
And crashed it while smoking some mota.

Tunneling thoughts like rain
Craning through light clouds
Unsuspecting victims.

The fear
The tears
The temper tantrums;
                                           A kind of rebuttal

That won't let our feet find land
We adjourned to rehearse,
but our efforts were null and void

Only to appease with flames
that licked our shriveled bodies

D r
       i    p
                 p  i  n
                             g  
                                              Kerosene

Tainted like ink                  Spilled on
Reams of paper
ruined like Christmas
A house warmed by          Open flames

fallen candles                     Adorning
A naked kitchen                 My limp body,

Splayed beneath the oven      
                                               As
darkness indulges,             It
consumes
The smoke,                          Fills                
                                               Each crevice
                                               In your mind

Can you ever fight it
Burn your way back
To blissful ignorance.

Now how do I put it into words,
Explaining a feeling I've never felt before,
A little piece of love; making me yearn for more,
A richly deserved taste of it's brewing love,
Inside of my cup; sometimes in a long mug,
The steam tickles my top lip hairs, I stir, and stir,
Sip, sip, careful not to get burned.

That little *** is boiling over the stove,
It whistles proudly; of my warm heart for my love.

Pulling the draw; grabbing a spoon, three teaspoons
of sugar, a full spoon of coffee, and the hot water I pour.
Oh! Looks like it's a bit to bitter, so let's grab the sugar
and add one more.

Warm blanket, warm thoughts, a warm paper,
and pen, then my warm words.

Warmth. Warmth is all I can describe of my
love in words.

Breaths taken
Midnight cold
Talking to myself
3Am's

Countless outcries
Isolation and work
Later found me
Gazing dark nights

A watched *** never boils.
But when the heat is too high, the *** boils over.
Then again, when the *** is empty and sitting on
a burner, cold to the touch, it serves little to no
purpose. Why don’t you add something to the ***?
Why is it just sitting there? What are you planning to
do with it? Are you planning on adding your own
special recipe to the ***? Are you adding a unique
sauce to it? Are you going to add water to the *** and
allow it to simmer? Or you going to add a secret ingredient
to the *** that you don’t want anybody to know about?
Is the *** going to yield a hearty meal? Is it going to be food
for my soul? Only you know what you want in this empty
***. I can’t add to, or take away from your *** Because it
doesn’t belong to me. I feel like you want to add a piece of
me to your ***. but a part of you is afraid of how the finished
recipe will turn out. How can you be afraid of an empty ***?
Why aren’t you adding your favorite foods to it?
The *** can’t produce empty contents.

Hot, the feeling on my lips as I close my eyes and think.
I take a deep breath in and exhale as my mind wanders into another world.
I’m always deep in thought, because why would I stay here when the world only takes from me.
I remember all the good times we had, our hands locked as if we were scared that letting go meant the other would float off into the distance.
But once the flame ignited you seemed to forget all about your worries, forget about your past, your future, your present.
The hand loosened and soon I was forgotten about.
You were my only connection to a beat that kept me going, the pulse that let others know I wasn’t a husk of ideas that seemed to be greater than the sum of my own parts.
My rock and soul.
But I learned in high school that once a rock starts moving away from you, it will never come back, it will only ever keep moving.
And I remembered too late, just like that the case had been made and put away. Forgotten about like it never actually ever meant anything.
Heavy, the feeling of my heart as I open my eyes and cry.
I poured myself some hot tea and thought about how that was my life.
A revolving door of those who take and leave, as I stay and get hurt.
Jasmine and Mary they always seemed like a great couple, but once you looked deep inside they were only hurting each other.
One burning too hot and the other just not. One soothed the pain and the other removed it.  
Don’t mix your tea with your ***, unless you want to slowly watch it all drift away.

Hello there, Kettle
My name is ***
You’re blackened metal
And I am not

You are used for water-boiling
And I am used to cook
You are such a soiled thing
But I have such a look!

You find yourself, I am sure,
An object of ridicule
And I am found all the more
As absolutely critical

Do not pretend to be so true
As to walk the path that I’ve got
Do not pretend that I am like you
I assure you that you are not

You must endear to be like me
Old Kettle, I’m helping you out
You could change if you’d only see
You’re the one that sticks yourself out!

So go away, dumb Kettle,
Go away you silly old fool
Do not ******* and settle
You down ‘til you know the rules:

If you feel, do not speak
Not to me, at least
But if your hunger will not leave
Perhaps you need a priest

Or someone else who can deal with this
And the problems I’ve outlined, as well
Because I don’t want to deal with your *******
Just get some mother-******* help

I am the ***
You are the kettle
I am not like you
I am not like you