Inner Turmoil

One word, a few syllables, a string of words, a simple thought of a past discourse, sets off a black inferno. A spitball of mangled infectious hatred, burning with fiery tension. A squirming molton mess of tangled lines swirling and writhing inside my chest, clawing at my throat. Like a flashover, choking and suffocating. Jaw clenched, spewing obsidian venom. Further than hatred, angry wont cut it! An intense, murderous consciousness seems more applicable. Words are powerful and yet mean nothing. Actions scream volumes.  Grief has a lifespan and gives way to peace. Death would placate, extinguish the flames.