choosing it so hard.
all the time, i have terrible throat issues. my voice hasnt been right in a while.
ive tried to remedy the situation in a number of different ways, but it just doesnt seem to want to get better.
i have a pit in my throat. not like a peach pit; not a stone fruit seed. not hard and ridged on the outside, but still secretly full of life.
i have the other kind of pit. a hole. the kind where souls go to be punished in the inferno. the kind thats always half empty, making room for more burning. that might be it. that might be why i spit so much hot fire. im digesting and regurgitating energy all day. punishing it. melting down all my unspoken thoughts, until,
as soon as im half full, every word is practically vomited out, like lava. superheated solids made fluid through fiery fury.
but hell, most island were at one time volcanoes, right? hot firey pits spraying out all that digested energy to make new places worth visiting someday. time always proves destruction is actually pretty constructive.
i can live with that...
because then, im really creating, just spitting out my hot fire, a lozenge working in reverse for my sore throat.
i speak my truth,
letting it lay waste to everything in its path,
fiery fury fluids flowing flawlessly.
but lava is still rock, and time always proves that, too.
those molten ideas harden, set up,
ripen into stone fruit seeds.
hard and ridged on the outside but secretly full of life.
so i'll keep talking, ya'll. with or without a voice.
ill keep the forges stoked, and the furnaces on full,
yelling, singing, shouting and storytelling
until i burn clean through my neck,
and i'll do it the only way a viking volcano knows how:
NEVER QUIET, NEVER SOFT
as soon as im half full, every word is practically vomited out, like lava. superheated solids made fluid through fiery fury.
but hell, most island were at one time volcanoes, right? hot firey pits spraying out all that digested energy to make new places worth visiting someday. time always proves destruction is actually pretty constructive.
i can live with that...
because then, im really creating, just spitting out my hot fire, a lozenge working in reverse for my sore throat.
i speak my truth,
letting it lay waste to everything in its path,
fiery fury fluids flowing flawlessly.
but lava is still rock, and time always proves that, too.
those molten ideas harden, set up,
ripen into stone fruit seeds.
hard and ridged on the outside but secretly full of life.
so i'll keep talking, ya'll. with or without a voice.
ill keep the forges stoked, and the furnaces on full,
yelling, singing, shouting and storytelling
until i burn clean through my neck,
and i'll do it the only way a viking volcano knows how:
NEVER QUIET, NEVER SOFT
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