when the small one erupts

they all look at him with judgement

laugh and call him names

never thinking for a moment the fragile child would erupt

he is but a storm a in a teacup

waiting to explode

they dont expect

thousands of sharp shards flying through the air like lightnight bolts in a storm

the hurricane that once free grows into something no man can control

the storm in him is lying in wait

waiting for someone to drop the teacup

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