Four-Times the Hold!

A concrete poem I wrote for 11th grade English. Ah, the study of Puritan style.

This package comes with a warning:
CAUTION! CONTENTS FLAMMABLE.
Like most things, it is ignored until
there is no way to avoid.
I am cheap recycled metal, passed through
the hands of bored stock-boys at
Generic Drugstore of America.
I am pressure, head to toes.
Nauseous, particle compact,
tiny as I can be
and at one man's discretion,
at the weight of his finger, I
explode. Sticking hopelessly to
my surroundings.
Unable to compress my thoughts,
to hide myself effectively. 
 

Bursting at first pointed glance,
punctured lungs and the
hallucination of hope.
Mouth longing to spray out
singsong affections that
will never be returned.