it's a dark corridor  ending in an angry mouth
we must all pass through
passengers of linear crime
feeling an exhausting hollow pull

i tell myself not to chide you child  
not to berate you into a convenient obedience
yet....

just last Monday eve
i told your voice that it was shrill   like a hurt bird
(that cuts a career as Singer out of your future)

just yesterday
i told you graphically and with crazed gestures
about the dangers of the open upstairs window
(a future fear of heights may well be on its way)

and i remember once
i told your body that society frowns upon ******
(that'll ensure future embarrassment  shame
and ****** awkwardness)

i chide myself now
   these practices must cease

They say forgiveness is for those who were wronged

But so is choosing not to forgive

You don’t have to forgive those who hurt you
In order to move on from that time
It doesn’t matter how many times
     they did or didn’t hit you
It doesn’t matter how many times
     they did or didn’t scream at you
It doesn’t matter how many times
     they did or didn’t make you cry
What matters is how many times
    you were afraid
What matters is how many times
    you couldn’t imagine being safe
What matters is how many times
    you couldn’t imagine things getting better

You don’t have to forgive them

Run along boy.

Create your own narrative,
a self-fulfilling prophecy,
whatever is necessary
to justify yourself.

It's enough for me to know
you're wrong.

Violence is never the answer,
But the implication of that quote
Is that violence is an answer
Even if it isn't ever optimal.

As someone once deaf,
And because of it once mute,
Such a quiet but thoughtful demeanor
Usually stirs one from their bitter attitude.

The slumber of anger,
Like that of sadness;
The tiredness is a dear friend,
The emptiness of them.

In that absence of contentment
Missing too is common sense.
The confusion of all emotions,
Their transient nature and overlap.

The first thoughts in the morning,
Filled with tension and anxious,
Mirror those like at night;
The nest of pests parasitic.

Anger, like sadness, is too broad.
Am I enraged by indignation?
Am I grieving from someone gone?
They have their places.

But violence is never an answer.
Peace, no matter what,
Is ever hardly secured
Even if it is always optimal.

I am a rage room,
Expliots of yesterday tumble within,
They see no shore,their voice goes thin,
They pry ,they seek this anger bashes them meek,
I trace these walls with a tender persuit,
To veil the blood that I ensued,
I'm these walls of flesh in an out,
Escape is clutched and dissolves within,
For in this rage room death is a sin,
I admire and then retire to these braided walls,
So perfectly aligned yet in all odds,
Rose i have never come to see,
Since when did beeding from the thorns become my destiny?

I can't stand these lonley nights.
I try not to be bitter for it is blight.
It consumes me whole how i lost a future so bright;
The girl, my friends, my dignity gone like waning light.
How can any of this truly be right?
But no matter how hard i stress my plight,
I still come to realise it was never really  right,
For they never cared for me their love was tight,
And in their depature i found the light.
Lonely yes, but now i can stand these nights,
And yes for company i still do fight.
But i know it will come when the time is right.
I guess for now its just another lonley night.

You fill me up,
You break me down.
Then scatter the broken pieces of my body all around,
A grim load of seed,
From which sprouts a wicker tree.

You seek foreclosure,
You'll find none from me.
I will be an angry spirit,
Lying amongst the wicker trees.

i should learn *******.

not the spider on the wall,
tenant with no real wherewithal.

not the neighbours sheep,
who make me lose my sleep.

i should learn ******* my brother; anger.

until i learn *******,
my heart's incessant aria
will sing of a mangled furia.

a twist of cain, please guide my hand,
cut everything out wherever you land.

father of ******, i am your son,
don't disown what your faith had won.

She’s soft and beautiful, kind and gentle,
But pushed so hard she’s over caring
Each new insult, a sliver of the mask cut away
Revealing the primal anger that
slumbers in us all.

Her eyes are gentle, bright and open -
Or at least, they used to be. They say eyes
Are the windows to the soul, but what if
Rocks and screams have shattered them
And only jagged glass remains?
It hurts to look at her now, to see the gaping
Holes where her soul used to be.

And that brave, beautiful heart of hers, the one
That  had an overabundance of love -
It’s closed off now, from itself and others,
And all the blood collects inside until it’s
Ready to burst.

And when all of it comes exploding out, a fountain
Of pain laid bare before you
There’s nothing left for you to do.
Look what you’ve done, this princess you now call
Monster.