Pages in my journal filled with spilled ink

Teapots and kettles whistle at me for more

-The pressure I feel to say the right thing-

As the whistle grows louder, I write faster

Conveying words as if they were me

Strong and black

Spilled ink is nothing more than a mess

Unless spilled with the intention to heal

And now that I am empty

My audience is full

They whistle no more

Ready to pour out and fill the cup of another