Sitting in a **** storm.
Its poetic.
Anger puts a silver bullet in your static dynamic.
Rage chokes out your common sense.
Bitterness is seeping from the corners of your smile,
                  Like poison.
All of your pain is real.
Tangible,
Unchanging,
Concrete.
The only 'silver lining' is the metallic placed by anger.
And as your heart pitter patters,
your limbs weaken,
your mind depletes,
You see hope galloping off into the distance.
Off to infest another potential uprising,
                 Like poison.
Nothing is real.
None of it matters anymore.