Anger Poem

I wrote this poem several years ago. I was mad when I wrote it.

I cannot use the words
that have always been there
like a constant friend that
you could always bum a tampon from

The verbs and nouns
and adjectives! –
that I have customarily
relied upon
are late without a phone call
They are back home, pressing snooze
and are very unconcerned
about my need to now express

All I can think to do
is grasp for one intrinsic word and say
“I feel …”
And all that now remains
is the ellipse floating in mockery afterwards
The blankness of this waiting page
is not the comforting computer screen
of new idea
It is the desperate heaving
of nauseating redness,
as I struggle to articulate
that has been my consort
for as long as I remember

Description rides futility
and urgency is married to the caveman
The “ums” and “ahs” are all I think
to orchestrate my life from
And how to then, move on …?
when I cannot box the surge of oceans up
and place ribbon around them
How do I feel?
– the Tiffany glass that smashes the far wall
– the axe gashing through a spitting unconcerned mouth
The pillow seems too soft
to make a satisfying shatter
The text of p-o-i-s-o-n or a-n-n-i-h-i-l-a-t-i-o-n
seems too tame
beside the dammed up Mississippi
of emotion

Anger Poem

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