Posts Tagged ‘anger’

And the Wind Howls out in anger,

such Feelings I repressed,

but the Universe- it Knows me-

and Wants to be noticed.

“I believe the universe wants to be noticed.” -from The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green

The walls know of your financial trouble.

The walls have heard you and your wife

scream at each other,

volume and pitch ascending, a two-person opera.

The walls know your children’s contained secrets.

They know what your son looks at

on his computer, and lusts after.

They listen to your daughter’s conversations

with herself, her diary, her friends.

The walls know your struggles,

they see blood boil under your skin,

see tears run like beads of quartz

down hills and valleys of your face,

hear each footstep- feel the hammers

or leopard steps they could be.

The walls know you.

They have Guarded you.

By the light of the full moon

something in me twists

and surges from bottom of feet

to skull,

pounding for release.

By pale light of day

I am shut in this blue-walled cage,

isolated.

And something pounds, claws,

beats tiny, scaly fists

against my forehead; and

something drooling and yellow-eyed

thrums and growls within my chest.

 

There are people who swallow

colonies of liquid in bottles,

who breathe in ash

and press their eyelids against

their pus-colored rotting fingertips,

but not me. These people take in new monsters.

I already have enough monsters in me.

I don’t need this world to put more in.

Why do I feel like a villain,

for intruding upon the monotony of your life,

for being put in a haze by rush of blood to my skull,

for overexamining my life as one might pour over a road map

because the future extends in so many directions

and it frightens me.

I am a child

thrown into a new world,

a new experience,

unprepared.

Now I’m scared

because you learned my secrets, and you can divulge them;

because I opened myself to you, and you,

while you blame me for overreacting

for holding on even though you do the same

and it’s tearing me apart

because you’re so hypocritical,

and I’m pulling my hair out

and I don’t want to be afraid,

but I don’t know how not to be.

It’s an awful thought to have- 

the thought that you may have come between two people.

If you believe yourself to be

a Bighearted person,

then do not let anger

or grief fester

in your thoughts,

or come across in your deeds.

This may seem so easily said,

and not so easily done,

but the truth is

that bighearted people

are most easily broken,

but also the most forgiving.

A big heart

is a house,

with thousands of rooms

for guests-

for every person

the heart’s owner

has ever met.

Metaphorical hearts can only be large

if they leave room for love,

and force hatred

out their doors.

While some people go

for cigarettes and alcohol,

they light up to calm down

or take a shot

to make the next move,

I’m not one of these people.

Now, I’m not bragging

or nagging, because this emotional

stew I sup can burn and boil,

or freeze and shatter me.

As messy as life is-

with the bottom of the pit

being brought nearer by red-faced,

angry screaming,

and hitting that dark place

where one curls with legs and arms crossed,

like a baby in the womb, within

a dark corner of nameless room,

I would rather ride this

strange and wonderful tide

(for my pen thrives in this

mixed, primordial sea)

because I know there are smiles

and applause from which

I get my high.

I am where the fury cannot reach me.

Claws of ice, of cold glass

would cut my cheeks

when I was younger, when I was

more foolish.

Now the breath of the globe

stirs its perfect blanket, it separates

into particles that cluster into talons,

but once would melt against my raw flesh-

no harsher than a mother’s love.

 

There is beauty

in this rage.

Only where I am is where Earth

could fold a new layer of skin

over itself, and become pristine,

with no black macadam,

no brown roots,

no pink beasts

to disturb its purity.

They are all too afraid.

Friends or Pirates–

you can’t be both.

They want– I want…

if they could let me be happy,

be respected for one day.

I am not a toy to be passed

from dirty hands of one child

to the next. I’ll rest here,

where I want. Until the day

comes when they’ll learn

by truth bitterly seasoned,

and unto them served.

A letter

that shouldn’t have had

those things

written on it,

those venomous worms

of ink,

wriggling around: friend or

enemy, friend, enemy,

friendenemyfriendenemyfriendenemy.

Of course she had to stick her nose into this.

I can’t complain,

you can’t get away from her…

not yet. She is your mother after all.

A letter that shouldn’t have been sent.

Not with those words…

The song playing in my head

as I write this is

not yours:

“You always hurt

the ones you love,

the ones

you shouldn’t hurt at all…”

I wish you luck from afar.

Not with those words.

I’m not sure we’ll ever speak again…

not with those words.

Not with those words.

If I were to peel back your skin,

what would I find underneath?

Is there some sort of baby there–

howling, malnourished,

thin as cardboard with veins

bulging underneath its tomato-skin like fat worms?

Is there nothing but an idol

whose limbs operated so humanly,

but only after the pale curtain was pulled away

was the inhumanity of its brass knob joints,

rigid gold stature,

and manufactured glass eyes revealed?

Or is it human?

Is there a heart?

Small, churning

and humming like an engine;

taking shape not as a crimson fist,

but as a flickering light,

fluttering like the sun,

nestled under your skin

in the cavity of your chest.