Anger

Rage is the fire

that burns through 

the dead brush 

and choked fallen leaves

of my emotional baggage.

My head is packed 

with the detritus of thinking 

forty-four years of

anxiety and comprehension 

piled high 

it is hard to walk 

in places.

It must be that some people 

keep their houses in order

are not filled to the brim

with anger

do not rage against themselves 

in the silence 

of their understanding.

Some people probably don’t 

turn their ideas 

towards themselves 

like a knife block

pointing inwards 

easy to run up against. 

Anger rises up in me

like a black flood

dirty from the storm water

of dark emotions 

hatred, self-criticism, impatience 

have flooded down

into the sewer 

that rests inside of me. 

I am burning with anger

with dread 

with the burden of listening to 

my own voice inside of me 

which is not kind 

which finds fault 

and rips down 

what I have built 

I am my own darkness

I destroy my own world 

I have torn off my own wings.