Sometimes, it is cool.
It is pleasant.
But sometimes,
it begins to simmer,
and a simmer becomes a boil.
The steam starts to escape.
Then there is an explosion,
as it pours out of me,
and washes over me.
A mighty violent torrent,
made of heat and pain.
I begin to shake.
And my mind races.
And I fight to get away,
from myself.
But I can’t.
So I wait.
And I watch it wash away.
Until it is cool again.
Until it is pleasant.
Poetry