Anger

Anger is something that is foreign to me.

I rarely get angry

because I was taught by the world

that anger isn’t pretty.

When I get angry,

I can’t speak.

I can’t think.

I physically get uncomfortable

because I am not familiar with the emotion.

I want to run

but I can’t run from myself.

I want to scream

but I can’t speak because my voice is still.

Anger is something that has erupted within me now,

because I only have one living grandparent

because I am single

because some of my family doesn’t approve of what I do.

But I have been told by my therapist

that anger is just the surface

and underneath is sadness.

That is the only way I can rationalize

Anger.

Because sadness

is recognizable.

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Beautiful.

the clouds moving across the pale blue sky, dripping rain down on my patio. My cats sleeping next to each other, butt to butt, when about two years ago they couldn't stand each other. They breathe in

Cold Rush

Time to increase down the aisle. Opening up to something else that I can't see, to feel the assault of love slap me in the face.

Madness

Expressions formed on my flesh leaving being bruised marks, carried out of my sight. Sly smiles creep up my legs causing a handicap, crumbling me to the ground.

©2019 by Chaotically Small Poetry. Proudly created with Wix.com