Hot fervent passions
    Building like a fire
        Within, like a tea
            Kettle without a
                Spout, nowhere to go,
                    Running out of room
                        Without a release,
                            Unable to speak
                                I could not survive,
                                    Sure to explode, if
                                        I could not write in
                                    Music or verse, the
                                Pressure valves of life,
                            Allowing passions
                        Otherwise unsaid
                    To be voiced and heard,
                At last accepted
            Through art mediums,
        A true, safe method
    To speak, feel, and think,
Is art, then, for me.