Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jeremy Betts Mar 2024
Inside this inconspicuous figure
Is a heart and mind that conspire together
To trigger my rage heavy splendor
That works out for me never
Too clueless to share how but somehow aware
Somewhere in there is fear
Even if just a sliver
So buyer beware
Locate the snare,
It's always there
A danger that's present but not clear
I sense it when giving and losing control,
Compassion and anger
I'm uncomfortable but familiar
With those two in particular

©2024
Chelsea Quigley Mar 2024
The fire,
Burns me,
Cutting deep inside.
Sparks do fly
As I speak my mind.
Trying to hide
This relapse of rage.
But it controls me,
Slowly,  
Like a puppet on stage.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2024
A free captive
Informed I don't know how to love or live
Only examples have been showbiz
Emotions in cursive
Not easily or easy to forgive
No clear or ulterior motive

Rage and violence consume absolutely
They savagely rip apart and rearrange me but not outwardly
I've been known to be self destructively passive and cowardly
Maybe a lobotomy would stop the calamity

Never experienced supportive
The consequences massive
I've been rewritten as aggressive
Stabbed in the back, I supplied the shiv
Caustic and corrosive
This is no way to live

Good fortune such a rare commodity it falls apart too easily
Troubles squeeze so completely and never leave me
What I am and what I'm supposed to be create this rigid dichotomy
I hope the something that's gotta give doesn't end up being me

©2024
Anais Vionet Feb 2024
I think the patron saints have all been left for dead.
The lies have all been said,
and payments been arranged.

The depositions all went down behind the scenes.
The clergy spilled the beans,
but somehow the guilty never found

Have you heard of Jesus?
He was very wise,
now he lives up in the sky.

sing along, sing in spite of all the pain
sing in spite of all of the pain

Children start out in the world so full of dreams.
Then come the philistines,
who run those dreams into the ground.

Yes, it’s been confirmed, the patron saints are dead.
The church is in the red,
and we are all concerned.

I can imagine Jesus,
with a mighty spell,
sending all those guys to hell.

sing along, sing in spite of all the pain,
sing in spite of all of the pain.

The sordid stories that were hidden from us all,
except those on bathroom stalls,
which turned out to be the facts.

Children start out in the world so full of trust,
their faith was easily crushed,
and now we’re filled with a righteous rage.

Now we’re living in a new enlightened age -
sure that we can be the change.
Can we live like Jesus?
Can we avoid lies - can we be compassionate and wise?

sing along, sing in spite of all the pain
sing in spite of all of the pain
neth jones Jan 2024
rage of snow outside
against it   i finish sealing
    windows and doors
my self segregation
    from which    a depression forms
tanka style

notes :

 windows and doors
form a segregation
  depression builds
a rage of snow outside
i finished doing the weather stripping

dry heat headaches and orange peel scented caulking
jia Jan 2024
when you are a woman
you bleed the burden of being one
literally within every month
and metaphorically every single day
you polish the plates clean
you cook the cake delectable
you plan the garden to grow plants
you figure out your figures
you beg to be believed
you serve to be esteemed
you scream to be heard
to be seen, to be listened,
to speak, to be free
you consume the rage given
passed and inherited
genetically and immanently
you are born
yet you give birth too
being a woman is a revolution
verdigris Jan 2024
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise

How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail

The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
after five years without writing poetry, i have given birth once again.
Zywa Nov 2023
She submerges us

in a great deluge of words --


We're completely soaked.
Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1-4 "Under the carpet"

Collection "Low gear [2]"
Jack Trainer Oct 2023
He has no choice but to pound her back,
to get her to let go of my arm as she bites down hard.
She says she hates me because I pulled her hair when she was a child,
I am a vicious man who lacks control over my anger.
I don’t disagree with her memories, but she adds more than I can remember,
In the moment, I can have blind rage and not remember a few minutes before.
She thinks I hate her, but I don’t. How can I convince her otherwise now?
I am no longer Father. Dad. Pops. I am my first name.
I see the wall that I created whenever I try to talk with her,
Not made of wood, but concrete. It’s made of a Roman mixture that will last for thousands of years.
My wife says, “Give it time”, but time doesn’t erode this wall.
Next page