Grinding my teeth
I pace and wear down the rug
How could they?
Why would they?
How dare they!
Seething
it's not true anger yet
just this budding of discontent
not wanting to get into it
not wanting to feed
this monster standing before me
even in this habitual
movement
trying to relieve the steam
I call out the loops in my head
pull them into straight lines
shake them until they shape up
and become coherent sentences
I know this game
they like to swim in my
cerebral goo
doing laps and patterns
emotions in fancy suits
doing choreographed dances
across my synapses
I have allowed this seed to be planted
I have fed it to this level of bloom
holding it in my hands
I see it begins with decay
not the other way around
I drop it and watch it disappear
in a **** of dust
reaching into my chest
I rip out the roots
******, pulsing
reaching to take a hold
once again
and start a second bloom
i fling it away in disgust
there is nothing glorious in that thing.
In order to get rid of the flower of rage
you must first
rid yourself of
the root of frustration.