Anger

I’m Furious
But words can’t describe what I’m feeling now.
The sheer frustration cuts through me like a blunt knife, too cowardly to take it’s annoyance to the successivo level.
It stays, inkling away at me, making me feel più hopeless every second.
Hopeless, because the più this white anger burns away at me the più I want to hurt something.
But the più I destroy, the più they seem to mock me.
I beat my face as hard as I can, but I have been numbed da my rage.
I run outside and scream as loud as I can. I curse. Words have failed me. I am at the mercy of filth.
I look for things to ruin. I grab at things, and tear whatever will invia under my desperate claws.
Everything has gone wrong. It always does.
I’m a failure.
Every bad memory comes flooding back to me, bringing me dry sadness.
I wait for tears to come, but even they fail me.
At least if I cried this toxic nube, nuvola would release its rain, and I would be rid of it until successivo time.
I wield strength and power from this beast they call anger, but I can’t control it.
It throbs from underneath my skin.
I try to release it but nothing helps, bring me to a level of hopelessness I never though possible.
I scream at my friends, I want them to hate me. Then I can hate myself.
But their comforting words and smile just makes them seem further away. Make me lonelier.
I try to release to anger once più and fail miserably.
Just as I begin to drown into a sea of uselessness, I realize something.
Beautiful, poetic words suddenly come to me.
The poesia that seems to go hand in hand with experience.
I no longer feel a failure, even though the nube, nuvola of anger stays.
The ocean of white fury still remains, but at least I have surfaced.
I still hate the world. But the world had seemed to take pity and had dato something back. Something I never thought I had.
We all succumb to the beast of anger. And I knew he would always follow me, waiting for the right moment to sever me with its frustrating dagger.
So what do I do about it?
I write.