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Inside me is a  boiling brass kettle screaming on a hot stove.  As if a frantic teapot Could be contained  without spilling over.  As if the shrill cry of a  steaming pot bawling 
I'm a teapotwarm and boilingboiling so much that my top is poundingpounding me until I can no longer feel the burning sensationthis rapid raceand unwilling face looks at menot wanting to touch me
Through writing I can allow my words to come out freely, the walls that shut me in can come down. I feel the pressure leaving, like a screeching teapot  taken off the flame.  I see what I write,
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