as i walk home through the
vestiges, the casualties,
of winter’s early wrath, i
feel an anger settling
in my stomach. and i
can’t help but to feel it
like a productive rage,
the kind of rage that a
those artists on the side
street t would be able to
mold into something more
beautiful. hot, rushing
blood coming out as ink
in the tip of a pen,
or splashes of paint on
a canvas, or pounding notes
that clash together in
an epic symphony.
but instead it sits and
stews in the pit of my
stomach, brews over as
tears - hot and wet - on my
red flushed cheeks. realization.
oppression. walls that squeeze
me in all too tightly.

it is easy to write
a poem about a
beautiful day. sunlight
filtering through the tree
branches and babbling brooks
happily giggling through
a boisterous palace
of nature. but how do
you write a poem that
captures this torturous
collapsing of faith in
that beauty. or paint a
picture that can feel like
complete desertion. or else
this endless desolation.