I'm Not Angry

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅁🄴🄰🄳🅈

I am groping in the darkness I’ve been chained and left to rot in. I am the keeper of the whispering beginning and spectacular end. I can rewrite the path in every color and scent. Still, it abruptly ends again and again.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅁🄴🄰🄳🅈

I am overexposed and underestimated, invisible yet avoided like the plague. Spent and drenched, your warnings go unheeded. Spinning out, I can't maintain a grip or catch sight of the circling fins. Gone under, my muscles frozen in anerobic torpor.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅃🄸🅁🄴🄳

I am worn down to a fine grain of exhaustion, ripped to smithereens in the eye of realization's hurricane, polished by the eroding winds of falsehood. Unable to lift an eyelid, and view the future as it comes. I wallow, trapped in visions of what might have been my waking days.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅆🄰🄸🅃🄸🄽🄶

I am frozen, withdrawn to the creative center of my pain, pumping out clouds of anesthetizing madness. Who, what, when, why, where; nothing can move me until responses have been paired with these petitions, seizing forward motion. Even if it is only escaping my brain.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅂🄰🄳

I am left in the red, filled to the negative with positive emotion. I have been emptied and scavenged of basic fulfillment. My humanity has been stripped and made to dance for their titillation and amusement. Every physically extricated feeling, strung up and medicated. To no avail, reality doesn't disappear in a cloud of vomit inducing seratonin. Only my meals are expelled, like demons from my terror-stricken form.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅆🄸🄻🄻🄸🄽🄶

I am bound, squalling like the moment I was stolen from my mother’s womb. I flee, crawling blindly down a flight of stairs in an infantile effort to escape certain doom.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅂🄸🄲🄺

I am mad with grief. The facts of my life eat away at my flesh until I’m hunched and broken, blown to shreds by a drifting maple leaf. Normalcy stricken from the record, as my pain is proudly set up on display by a woman referred to as my mother. An Algea feeding on every whimpering refrain.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🅃🅁🅈🄸🄽🄶

I am failing to live a life expected or desired. My every dream has long expired, as I witness the fruit of my hard work slowly wither and petrify before I lay my pen down and painfully expire.

🄸’🄼 🄽🄾🅃 🄰🄽🄶🅁🅈

I am bathed in an outrage threatening to tear every fiber of my being. Rip proton from neutron, leaving me volatile, a radiant ordinance in preparation for detonation. Anger, I barely know it. I am little more than a collection of chemical reactions threatening to fulfill my purpose and incinerate in tempestuous flame.

K.B. Silver