The blood boils – without a sound or a flourish,

Just like that, doing nothing gets him all bored up,

Better bubble and froth and evaporate,

Than lay low and from action separate…

The cost of boiling up so continuously he doesn’t understand,

Calmness and coolness he just cannot anymore withstand,

Reasoning and rationale are all good for the brain he says,

Boldly into long lost terrains he now carelessly sways…

Purposelessly he gushes along as if with a purpose,

Towards a destination, or to fulfill some vague destiny;

Seeking poetic freedom within the flow of a prose,

Laughing all along – he can see – nay, feel the blatant irony…

Bubbling and seething, thick and black with anger,

Waiting to be released onto the edge of that shining dagger,

Caring nought for the wound it will have to go through,

How does it matter, he no longer feels any need to prove…

For he waited a long time while he flowed restlessly in you,

Now he wants to be free, fearing what will happen otherwise,

Seeking another place where seething he doesn’t have to rue,

You turned out to be a dud, and upon that you think you are wise…