Rage

 

Rage ~

the winds of rage blow cold
yet burn the throat
tasting bitter and metallic
and souring the stomach and mind
with nothing solid to grab on to
like someone punching a hole in the clouds
let it go
let it go
how?
when it’s seared itself on to your skin and spirit like a infected bite
to play the game requires a deliberate sinking into the common mire
the frontal lobe resists
while ancient impulses shout
and rattle weapons of bone and wood
Blake’s tree grew strong on watered fear
my own poison is not as creative
or malleable
producing no apples
only the twisted worms of discontent
and weeds of growing spitefulness

©jayetomas2014

 

 

 

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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