If I feel nothing, is that what I am?
My anger and frustration spilling to the floor
Soaking through my socks and shoes,
Leaving me boiling with distaste for
Whatever it is I've been threatened to lose.

My anger is something.
My fury is rising as my patience takes a knee,
As if this was avoidable by those I love,
As they only expect my loving glee,
As some shove against it telling me, "move."

I feel it. I feel the press
The selfish desires of those to whom I cater,
My selfish heart only wants more
And yet those who never fought me, but later
I find they care most when I'm sore.

And here I am at the brink of it
As my calm waters are to be infected with red.
My seas imbued with wretched distaste
I'll try to remember all you said
So I don't put your words to waste.