Anger
Anger, brewed in words, babbles
Down my burning throat.
Hands clenched into fists, fury
And nails pierced into flesh, pain.
This unutterable anger which I
Utterly itch for to utter in words,
To smother in sense and understanding,
Whilst its smoke climbs up the neck,
Clawing the throat from behind.
In natural warping of the face,
And the shivering of the voice,
I act. I play. I amplify my anger
To its LOUDEST, so to show you,
To force you into confrontation
With the wrath blazing up.
Yet you douse it in iced water,
You wrap it in kraft,
You hurl it in clutter,
And tramp it to mash:
“How dare you cross the line,
When it is me who raised you up.
Gave you the food, the house, the pricey
schools.
All this painstaking care I have
Wasted, wasted half of my life on you!”
I reason. I weep. I encode every word
Into a buzzing brain, and akin to
A flopping fish, I flap
My tail, restless, and spit out
Anger, and sear it upon
The sizzling tip of tongue,
To try, to try to convince
Your narrow, cramped mind
Of listening, hearing me speak,
Taking time, with impartiality,
What I have to say to defend
What a child thinks and feels
In her logic and morality.
But the words only fan up the flame,
Burn us to boiling points,
Whilst the fire flames its fingers
To scorch my skin, imprinting marks
That make me realise how
I must contain the anger, not speak.