Anger is like a dry desert




that rain has not kissed for years.
The taste of salt is the only thing that stings your tongue,
stranded in the Sahara of the soul

Scaly hands
are holding your head up to the sun of rage.
Every nail its own miniature migraine
protruding into your temple inch by inch
causing you to go blind.
Eyes glazed over,
milky white
unable to see what is truly making you angry.
Taking it out on whatever small creature
that might unknowingly cross your path.

Sweat rolls down your back
Every little drop a trigger,
a trigger into more of this blinded fury.
You feel the sting
of the droplets slowly proceeding out of your pores,
like thin, rusty needles
are pricking your over and over,
until blood heated with rage
covers your body and overwhelms your senses.

Your teeth grind each other,
as if tiny bits of sand are stuck in between each tooth,
creating a sound, so hideous and profound,
that it echoes into your bile filled gut
and enters your soul.


And you may be lucky in this midst of this rage
to find a beautiful flower that had been kissed by the rain.
Every dew dropped pink petal gleaming in the sun,
tells a story of one who has survived
this desolate heat wave.

So you take this flower in your blinded state
and milk it for all its water, its happiness.
Leaving it to be dehydrated, to be consumed by the sun
as you once were

And like this flower
you grow roots into the sandy garden,
to be stranded in this spot
where you found happiness.
To reminisce, until that day comes
where another rips you from the ground,
only to take your water,
strand you in the Sahara,
and leave you to the rage again.