Sometimes, I do not feel as though I belong.
When I write, my anger bursts out of me, explosions smattered across the blank page.
When others write, their pens leak tears, the sadness soaking the page.

Why am I different?
Why do I enjoy the rage that consumes me and, just as quickly as it came, leaves me with its damage?
Why can't I drown in the heaviness of sorrow that slowly suffocates everyone else?

Sometimes, I feel as though I am the angriest person in the world,
this world overfilled with sadness and melancholy,
while I am pumped full of rage.

Am I different?
Why is the rage so shallow yet it comes from an untouchable place within me?
Why does my sadness seem so deep, yet my despair fades as soon as I put words on a canvas?

I am the angriest person alive,
in a universe of sad, poetic souls
and yet, I can't find anything sad about that,
only anger.