Poem: Bottled Up Yet Overflowing
Never was one to share too much glee
No, that was not the mainly way that would appear to me
Never was one to take much more than a singular care
Not to worry, multi-tasking was not at all my favorite fare
Yet when life turned up the heat
And the kettle filled with everything from foreign teas to broken feet made more than a peep
The emotion remained the same
Never saw him send any blame
Always took the road less traveled until pressure would maintain too much
And then speedily he would reach the arch
No longer filled with tar from the trip it was now two rubbers on the stove
And the faster he went he could not escape the inevitable chase
That life would eventually catch up with that bottle of passion
Never more than a smile gleamed could one understand the pain
It was buried deep such that he would never be the same
And when the actions flustered him to no end
The man would clean every nook, corner, cranny, and then
Move towards working more
More towards providing more
Until at the end of the days sore
A cookie and a choice movie would be the only chore
This is the kettle that I remembered
Never saw the stove in the same way when it was removed
Just a mite teapot short, stout
A handle big enough to be carried by travels never seen
A spout wide enough to feed even the hungriest of teens
This is what I remember as the years go by
And I become molded into a teapot His own
That for every action that I bottle up
I must release the passion overflowing
Else all that I would leave is charred remains
Of a teapot closed up
Like his father’s remains.
No, that was not the mainly way that would appear to me
Never was one to take much more than a singular care
Not to worry, multi-tasking was not at all my favorite fare
Yet when life turned up the heat
And the kettle filled with everything from foreign teas to broken feet made more than a peep
The emotion remained the same
Never saw him send any blame
Always took the road less traveled until pressure would maintain too much
And then speedily he would reach the arch
No longer filled with tar from the trip it was now two rubbers on the stove
And the faster he went he could not escape the inevitable chase
That life would eventually catch up with that bottle of passion
Never more than a smile gleamed could one understand the pain
It was buried deep such that he would never be the same
And when the actions flustered him to no end
The man would clean every nook, corner, cranny, and then
Move towards working more
More towards providing more
Until at the end of the days sore
A cookie and a choice movie would be the only chore
This is the kettle that I remembered
Never saw the stove in the same way when it was removed
Just a mite teapot short, stout
A handle big enough to be carried by travels never seen
A spout wide enough to feed even the hungriest of teens
This is what I remember as the years go by
And I become molded into a teapot His own
That for every action that I bottle up
I must release the passion overflowing
Else all that I would leave is charred remains
Of a teapot closed up
Like his father’s remains.
Labels: poem
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I just 
One of the reasons that I 
