“Hey you! Blame your fate and your past self for making whatever strange and downright absurd decisions that have led you to read this poem. 
If you think it is going to be deep, or profound or interesting or in any way worth your time,
You are unfortunately very mistaken.”

Candlestick, both sides blaze
Still a dark room, still an unsteady gaze
Nothing to write. Pen comatose. 
Melting skin, heart in froze. 

“Honestly I can't take it anymore”

Darkness ahead, and nothing is new
Just move like before, known patterns and cue

“It doesn't even make sense”

Princess sleeps, cold black stone
Don't wake her up to the world unknown

“It's not a cry for help. No one can help me anyways”

You smell the coming rot
Deathly trap, mouse is destined to be caught. 
Don't lament his death. 
Cause it's not a ******
It's an unforeseen tragedy, that's all. 
You'll fall from grace, you know you're soon to die
Why don't you go and run, and do your best to deny. 
Screams of pain, 
Blood and guts have made this very terrain. 
Wherever you go, the world is round my dear. 

“OH * NO OH * NO OH ** NO”

“Scratch that one out”

Myself standing motionless in doorways and parking,
Dead pigeons, carcasses, eyes lifeless, smile snarky,
You say write what you feel yet, 
You claim you can't feel a thing
Drag marks on dry dirt, beast hungry, time to ****, 
Frostbitten, white marks, death count and the phone may ring
Forget what you said, you never said a thing. 

“You know? Maybe it is all my fault”

Beauty, love, pain, dandruff
Regrets creep, phasmophobe, blood altar, lose all hope. 
Cardboard box, old stained floor
You speak to death as you close the door
What he said can you tell? Mitosis? Fallen angel? 
You seek truth, yet you don't know what, 
How truth may it look and will it hurt?
Stare blankly, to the stars, in your may, darkest night
Make your heart raise, fast cortisol trembling knee
The truth happens to be exactly what you see

I look up, with my eyes growing numb
A path shown by a piece of ****
But all I could ever see, was the horizon. 
That claustrophobic horizon

My anger is alive.
My anger is holy.
It is not destructive,
not evil, not uncontrolled.
It does not consume—
it creates.
It creates justice.

It grows as a tree grows,
toward the light,
toward the truth.
It rises in strength,
in steady determination,
branches reaching wide,
casting shade over all
who seek its refuge.

My anger is breath—
filling my lungs
with the fire to endure,
to press on, to press on.
My anger is courage.
It is the sword I raise,
the armor I wear
beside peace, beside truth.

My anger is holy.
My anger is my own.
It is mine.