Long ago I promised myself
That anger is a childish emotion,
That scribbles written in haste
And fists drenched in the color red
Could never solve the perplexity
Of real emotions.
We dig compassion into the ground
With shovels of fear.
But if we were to take a moment
To unearth it from its resting place,
Under our wrinkled brows
And white knuckles,
Maybe we would see that we don't feel anger,
We feel passion.