There’s this bottled up penetrating frustration writhing in me.

It’s burning hot, scalding fire, and so much rage—

sometimes I scream at them.

I screech words so cruel so barbaric so heartless,

you can feel the crack on their wall like a gaping hole.

And it makes you so gleeful.

It soothes the wicked flame inside you.

Blood-crusted lips smiling as crimson falls onto your chin.

It isn’t until later that you notice the sword behind your back.

The fume burns brighter now, inside you, outside you…all around you.

It isn’t until later, when your body is held against the gentle night sky,

its cool air brushing your forehead, its darkness diminishing your seething rage.

You twinkle in and out.

No more crippling ferocity.

No more crushing wrath.

Just you and the tranquil black canvas.