avatarK.B. Silver

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Abstract

combusting in devastated flames. Chairs, dresses, humanity, anything my words touch light up, so everyone runs. Chaos ensues until the volcano of anguish subsides. Hiding away is no use. People love a fireworks display. Until the rain comes and washes the anthill away. They all scamper and struggle, climbing onto rafts, floating downstream. I lay in a heap giving off steam. Wrath hardening in the drenching downpour. I break away. Skin charred and blistered, changed and unrecognizable. In pain, yes, that’s the only way there is. Not crawling on my knees. Lighter now even if I’m empty, I stride through the storm, the environment in which I thrive. The rest of you can run feebly attempting to hide.</p><p id="9b0c">K.B. Silver</p><p id="3720">American writer</p><p id="264d">KEEP SCROLLING TO COMPLETELY READ</p><div id="4d4a" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/judas-goat-e15b6ecebf0a"> <div> <div> <h2>Judas Goat</h2> <div><h3>I walk up and down the ya

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rd Waiting for my chance with the herd All keeping such a distance Too far for me to hear…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*[email protected])"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="f2f8" class="link-block"> <a href="https://medium.com/@contactblockwife/membership"> <div> <div> <h2>Join Medium with my referral link - Block Wife</h2> <div><h3>Read every story from Block Wife (and thousands of other writers on Medium). Your membership fee directly supports…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*7bP0H85KvAbl4Q05)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Spontaneous Combustion

Photo by Hosein Shirvani on Unsplash

Like Hannah, my grief masquerades as something detested. The pathetic, maddened, unyielding, woman. Stolen screams in the night. “NO”s rolled over with the power of coal steam. Every ounce of strength forced into conducting myself to this point. Collapse viewed down the nose with vocal disdain. Instead of being thrown into the cistern. With the rest of the deceased and refuse. I am held up as evidence of the loose in character. What happens when gifts are squandered, not perfected. I know the damning truth. Yet all the devils escape notice evading punishment this day. All my rocky words melt into magma, spewing as it burns my skin. I topple supine, lava trickling out in fiery rivulets. Carpet combusting in devastated flames. Chairs, dresses, humanity, anything my words touch light up, so everyone runs. Chaos ensues until the volcano of anguish subsides. Hiding away is no use. People love a fireworks display. Until the rain comes and washes the anthill away. They all scamper and struggle, climbing onto rafts, floating downstream. I lay in a heap giving off steam. Wrath hardening in the drenching downpour. I break away. Skin charred and blistered, changed and unrecognizable. In pain, yes, that’s the only way there is. Not crawling on my knees. Lighter now even if I’m empty, I stride through the storm, the environment in which I thrive. The rest of you can run feebly attempting to hide.

K.B. Silver

American writer

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Poetry
Grief
Trauma Recovery
Moving On
Bouncin And Behavin Poems
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