This poet

Is like a simmering pot

Overfilled and left on the flame

Until the water erupts out

As hot and angry words

Burning those who come near

Not out of malignant malice

But because this is his nature;

He is a walking volcano

Burying his nearby Pompeii

In a caustic pyroclastic flow

And weeping over the wake

Covered in dead,  dry ash.