Kettle on the Stove

Anxiety is like a kettle boiling

Rushing, running, shouting, toiling

Over the edge with every plight

Of wrong, of flaw, and fright.

It eats and festers just inside

Like rust clinging to the side.

It grows and surges up to top

Then bursts the mood with pop

Then screams to pierce the air

My hands press into my hair

To cover my ears

But only I can hear

The whistle of its warning

That my life is churning

Into frothy foam and heat

That will slowly retreat

To upset waters that wait to rise

To bile, to nausea I despise.

Just when I think it knows defeat,

The kettle warns, we will meet.