Eruptions

It's percolating from below. If lava ain't allowed to flow, you'll see something more abrupt. One day, it must erupt.  A pompous, boring oration continuing without cessation - trying to listen to what he said, a fly has landed on his bald head. Trying to suppress thereafter, impossible, you burst into laughter. An injustice, and you start to boil. It seems like such a heavy toll. As you try hard to keep your peace, it struggles for release. Like a kettle filled with steam, you can't stop it, and you scream. Maybe, it's not entirely proper, a genteel lady and a sharecropper, but, with this impassioned lust, if it must be, then, well, it must. Spurred on by a little brandy, a closet comes in handy. It could be a poem or piece of art locked up tightly inside your heart, a message, you feel you must impart - is it dead before it can start? No, my dear, it continues to live, until, your gift, to the world you give. Authorities can suppress the truth - rulers, teachers, influencing youth, who slowly grow up and bide their time, appearing to all to toe the line. It may take a while, but without fail, the truth will, one day, prevail. It's percolating from below. If lava ain't allowed to flow, you'll see something more abrupt. One day, it must erupt.