A Portrait of Anger
I throw words since I cannot throw knives.
I throw them to try and quell the growling beast inside of me that is roaring from the back of my throat. The string of expletives that my religious bones have locked from me has broken out from the “only in case of emergency” glass, suddenly becoming some instinctive, familiar tongue, shooting straight and true from my clear and angry mind.
Thoughts race in flashes, tumbling one over the other, each fighting to be the first, to present their case loudly, to boldly brand the “HOW DARE” and the “I’M RIGHT” and the “SHUT UP” smack across the offending arguer/argument.
The cauldron in my belly boils, retches, and clinches taut, morphing from a deep, bubbling cavern of molten lava, to a hardy six-pack bracing for the fight. The body is ready for the bell, ready to sling mud, and ready for the heavy, ugly takedowns. Sure, it may not be a strong body, or familiar with the fight, but you can bet as hell it will not go down without one. It is here to make the other pay.
This is a self-portrait of anger.
Since I cannot throw knives, here are my words, punched keystrokes stabbing this digital page.
