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This is a poem I wrote in anger.
Inside of me is a rage that burns.
It burns hard and fast.
Fueled by anger and confusion
The fire is bound to be lit,
Causing a bombastic explosion
That shoots shrapnel of hate and vanity. Expounded by a barrage of verbal violence
Most who cross it do not get out alive, And if they do their scars are deep and bloody.
My rage knows no mercy,
And if ignited too soon
Ceases to cease.
Hate is a strong word,
Perhaps a more suitable one to describe my enmity is discontent.
No one knows how to cure; not even I know how to seize the mechanisms that so maliciously erupt.
However, there is one overbearing weakness that may hold the power of control
That if wielded could destroy it.
The element contains tenderness and a rare form of cardio-vulnerability. Sincerity and all-encompassing passion leads down to the path of salvation
From the horrid plague of rage.
The root is emptiness in itself.
Once wholesomeness knocks at the heart’s door, It is then eradicated.
What is the prescription for such a malleable illness other than that of love?
February 8, 2013