I write what I feel.

The molten thoughts rising from the dark chamber of emotional magma,

a pressure building beneath a calm crust.

The world above may shine with

its beauty, or be dark with its shame,

And I cannot help but write as I see it.

 

Sometimes the words spill,

too fast to catch,

like lava racing down a scarred slope,

glowing, alive, unstoppable.

Other times they seep and sigh,

slow rivers of meaning,

layer upon layer of cooling truth,

Forming solid ground that I can eventually stand on.

 

My heart has many vents.

One utters words of love,

soft and glowing as the setting sun on smooth stone.

Another spits fire, of venom, of 

anger, awe,

Whilst another takes wicked joy

of mocking the entitled and the ignorant.

Each eruption is different,

yet all are born of the same unseen core.

 

This force within me,

I never knew it slept so deep.

Now it stirs, and it rages and through the cracks

I see light and shadow such contrasts 

that were once buried.

 

Perhaps one day,

long after I am dead and gone,

someone will dig through the ash,

brush dust from my cooled creations,

and find the shapes I left behind,

basalt columns, that stand proud and defiant 

flat plains of thought

where new life dares to grow.

I can but hope.