Must you admit the jet-black thoughts
And the dreadful anxiety to anyone?
Does it make anything better?

You don’t need to confess.
You own your toxic mélange
And if you bottle it up,
You think you get to choose to uncork it.

I know only this: It will come out.
Seeping through the fissures
Or exploding like a suppressed volcano.
Tell loved ones to stand clear,
If there are any left to damage.

© 2022 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.

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