My anger is alive.
My anger is holy.
It is not destructive,
not evil,
not uncontrolled.
It does not consume—
it creates.
It creates justice.

It grows as a tree grows,
toward the light,
toward the truth.
It rises in strength,
in steady determination,
branches reaching wide,
casting shade over all
who seek its refuge.

My anger is breath—
filling my lungs
with the fire to endure,
to press on,
to press on.
My anger is courage.
It is the sword I raise,
the armor I wear
beside peace, beside truth.

My anger is holy.
My anger is alive.
My anger is my own.
It is mine.