Poems · poetry





my rage is pent up,

and needs to be spent.

it’s indicative of repressed things.

unknown in memory,

but, suddenly remembered if provoked.

simple cilia-like triggers,

up and down my being.

inextricably woven into my DNA.

prepared for the slightest provocation.

I don’t need a safe space.

I need a rage space.

I’m tired of swallowing your insistent mealy-mouthed duplicity.

You peddle an illusion of liberty.

but, we are all prisoners of self, and condemned of poignant detached fellowship.

born to die.

most often, alone.

dead on our feet.

chasing and avoiding.

The truth, undeniable.

Liberty doesn’t exist at all.

if you had to fight for your life everyday,

in the biological sense,

you would have no time for that.

your patience for tolerance would be swept away,

and you’d marvel at the energy that self-deceptions require.

chaos and order are fierce competitors.

they leave nothing on the field of battle.

life is…

it fucking simply is…

our perspective relative to that should humble, not enable.







2 thoughts on ““Tirade”

  1. Our perspective relative to that should humble, not enable.

    My relatives deny and enable and humble the bubble.

    My perspective humbles that what should enable

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