The fire within, a simmering heat,
A slow burn building, bitter and sweet.
My rage, a paradox, a twisted thing,
Born from hurt, yet comfort it can bring.

A wall it builds, a fortress strong,
Protecting a heart where shadows throng.
But in its grip, a chilling frost,
A lonely vigil, dearly embossed.

It whispers lies, of power and might,
A twisted justice, blinding the light.
It paints a picture, sharp and bold,
Of wrongs unrighted, stories untold.

This fury, a river, wild and deep,
Carries me onward, secrets to keep.
Secrets of sorrow, buried and deep,
That fester and bloom while others sleep.

It's a shield I raise, against the sting
Of words unsaid, and wounds that cling.
A roaring engine, fueled by despair,
A desperate cry, lost on the air.

But in its fury, a hollow sound,
A lonely echo, on barren ground.
For rage consumes, it burns and it bites,
Leaving only ashes, in desolate nights.

I crave release, a gentle hand,
To soothe the tempest, across the land.
To quell the fire, to still the storm,
And find a peace, safe and warm.

Yet fear holds back, a silent plea,
That vulnerability will shatter me.
So the rage remains, a bitter friend,
A paradox of pain, without end.

It builds me up, then tears me down,
A crown of thorns, a thorny crown.
A shadowed dance, a lonely plight,
Lost in the darkness, without a light.

The paradox deepens, a cruel design,
The fire I crave, it's not truly mine.
It's a borrowed power, a borrowed might,
A fading ember, in the fading light.

I yearn for calmness, a tranquil state,
To break the chains, before it's too late.
To understand the source, the bitter root,
And tame the beast, before it's consumed me to boot.

But the anger lingers, a constant guest,
A troubled spirit, never at rest.
A silent battle, fought within,
The paradox of rage, where does it begin?
And where, oh where, will it ever end?
The question haunts, a bitter blend.
Of hurt and anger, fear and pride,
The raging tempest, deep inside.