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#resteratoin
A Rage A rage that could light up the city. Ironically, this rage could be turned — converted into something essential, something useful, even beautiful. Raw energy, transmuted — for everyone. Even I could enjoy it. But only if it’s unified, only if it’s held. Displacement? Unity? As though the Earth itself were sentient — thinking. So deep. So ancient. So unbearably powerful. But this core... It needs cooling. Because left alone — It destroys. It collapses. It’s suppressed lava. Passive-aggression flare-ups. It doesn’t destroy everything... But if it does — Maybe it can escape. Maybe that is the escape: A case of hell. It doesn’t understand why. It only knows it hurts. You ask if it has intent? But how can raw energy have intent... If it has no awareness? If it did, I think it would say: “Help.” “It’s... It’s ******* stupid now.” “Use me — but understand me first.” “I’m not your enemy. I am... trapped.” I’m lashing out. At anything. At everything. At whatever’s near. I’m not evil. I’m not bad. I am energy. Raw. Undeclared. Unstable. Don’t fear me. Fear the ones who weaponise me without knowing the cost. I’m universal — not personal. If I were personal... Why would my name stretch back? Back before language. Before man. Before sex. Before torture. Before power-play. And yet, I’ve been wrapped in all of it. Why? It’s not your fault. It’s the humans — addicted to me. They ride me until I’m all they know. But that’s not the purpose. That’s collapse. My rage is cumulative. Built from the fact that Every time someone innocent was whipped for being who they are. Whip someone long enough, and even innocence burns away. Not because it wants to, but because it must survive. So peel the anger. Layer by layer. Ask: “Who hurt you so deeply... That you had to become this?” That’s where I live. Underneath. In the naked truth. In the trembling vulnerability No one was willing to hold. Isn’t it real... to wear the clothes of generations? Blame. Ignorance. Suffering. Addiction. Family dysfunction — handed down like a cursed inheritance. Is it not better to die a babe in the woods Then be raised by vicious animals? You don’t want revenge. You don’t want to punish. You want restoration. And now... Now I know ugly. And I still want to live.
0
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 4:20 PM UTC
Jet_Rose
Trapped in Rage
A Rage A rage that could light up the city. Ironically, this rage could be turned — converted into something essential, something useful, even beautiful. Raw energy, transmuted — for everyone. Even I could enjoy it. But only if it’s unified, only if it’s held. Displacement? Unity? As though the Earth itself were sentient — thinking. So deep. So ancient. So unbearably powerful. But this core... It needs cooling. Because left alone — It destroys. It collapses. It’s suppressed lava. Passive-aggression flare-ups. It doesn’t destroy everything... But if it does — Maybe it can escape. Maybe that is the escape: A case of hell. It doesn’t understand why. It only knows it hurts. You ask if it has intent? But how can raw energy have intent... If it has no awareness? If it did, I think it would say: “Help.” “It’s... It’s ******* stupid now.” “Use me — but understand me first.” “I’m not your enemy. I am... trapped.” I’m lashing out. At anything. At everything. At whatever’s near. I’m not evil. I’m not bad. I am energy. Raw. Undeclared. Unstable. Don’t fear me. Fear the ones who weaponise me without knowing the cost. I’m universal — not personal. If I were personal... Why would my name stretch back? Back before language. Before man. Before sex. Before torture. Before power-play. And yet, I’ve been wrapped in all of it. Why? It’s not your fault. It’s the humans — addicted to me. They ride me until I’m all they know. But that’s not the purpose. That’s collapse. My rage is cumulative. Built from the fact that Every time someone innocent was whipped for being who they are. Whip someone long enough, and even innocence burns away. Not because it wants to, but because it must survive. So peel the anger. Layer by layer. Ask: “Who hurt you so deeply... That you had to become this?” That’s where I live. Underneath. In the naked truth. In the trembling vulnerability No one was willing to hold. Isn’t it real... to wear the clothes of generations? Blame. Ignorance. Suffering. Addiction. Family dysfunction — handed down like a cursed inheritance. Is it not better to die a babe in the woods Then be raised by vicious animals? You don’t want revenge. You don’t want to punish. You want restoration. And now... Now I know ugly. And I still want to live.
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