The *** with match, lit the fire
scolding kettle with burnt goaless ambition.
claiming snobbish golden prowess
paid in wanton , savage, screaming tuition.
"It is I" said ***
"Who has sent aromas of worlds
preperations in lifes gluttonous lust
smiling rewards genorously hailed
with slothed culanary trust..."
"tis true" whispered kettle
"It is I, the ***,
forged in iron clad
who in laborious toil
so generously cast my sweet savory scraps
amongst your soot and soil..."
"tis true" hissed kettle,
"For I, the ***,
adapt in multiple arrangement
of compliment and comfort where you lack
with singular solitary function
wailing, seared and scarred in black..."
"Tis true" whistled kettle
"I, the ***,
filled in glorious substance and magnificant sustenance
praised in lifes delicate, vital, victuals and viands
in with which I do enhance..."
"Tis true" howled kettle
"Yet it is I, Kettle,
in further fashion of design
than copious function in fare
do not heed your song and dance..."
"Blah" clammered ***
"For it is I, the lowly kettle,
sing to each melodious morning
to begin the days
unknown magical soaring..."
"Pishaw" growled ***
"It is I, kettle,
bestowed in somber, modest truth of fact
nakedly express that
you too, my dear ***
are simply black..."
"humbug" steamed ***
*** humbled... kettle mumbled...
"It is in each honorable day
we serve our distinguishable stay
in detectable unadorned identicle way.
"Tis true" said ***...

Have you ever left a kettle on the stove?

Eventually the water inside will boil.
The steam rises
Triggering a whistle
Subtle at first,
Just to signal your attention.
But sometimes we don’t listen.

The whistle is an alert from the kettle.
It’s only way to communicate.
To say “I’m ready."
“I’ve finished what you started.”
“I’ve made exactly what you wanted.”

Now where are you?
You left me here,
On a black top stove,
Unattended with hot blue flames,
And the heat rising to place I can't take for much longer.

The longer you keep me here
The more I become solidified in my fears.

I will be abandoned.
I am unworthy of your attention.

The message is internalized
Until it becomes the only tape
I hear and play.
I search for the button,
but can't find ERASE.

Some days I feel like a kettle
Left on the stove.

At first I whisper a whistle,
Then wait a little.

When no one comes around,
I whistle just a little louder.

The volume continues to increase,
Until I’m taken off the heat.

All this time I was ready,
The way I was suppose to be

The first time you insisted I make tea.
Or coffee..
Or whatever you need…

I suddenly become handy,
In times you need me.

I am gentle until I reach
A point where I scream.

Then you call me crazy,
Say i’m making a scene.

Overreacting.
Turning a spill into a sea.

What kills me the most is your inconsistency.
The lack of predictably for your return.

Disregarding my time and my feelings.

How much water can a kettle hold, you think?

Your distorted idea
To the amount much patience I carry.

Measure it please:

A bounty?
A hole miles deep??
An infinite washing machine???
Capable of endless cycling????

You only run my energy.

If you didn’t know this already,
The water inside the kettle evaporates eventually.

Steams itself dry
Until nothing is remains
But an empty kettle,
A bottom burned ***,
And a stove left on.

I only have a few ounces left.

I am about to drain out,
I have nothing left to replace myself.

After this happens,
There are no second chances.

You've had all you're tries,
and you've taken you're time.

It will only be a matter of time
Until the last thing you hear, is a faint cry.