Written After Another Failure

Anger is anger.
Anger is like still water.
Still water is like a swamp.
Anger is anger
as long as the water remains still.

Anger is rage —
like a still surface disturbed,
like the scene of ripples running outwards,
with a center but no end.

with a single point marking a space of shift

Anger is like still water —
present yet ignored,
present yet undisrupted,
like a whisper, undemanding.

Anger is rage —
rage is still water disrupted,
with the sound of a fast clashing ripples unignored echoing .
And rage submerges.

Anger is like still water.
Still water is a swamp.
What life does a swamp hold?
What color is the water?
How clear its surface how far can you see through it?
Is there a hint of movement?
What could possibly survive its unseen reaches?
And what scent is it breathing?

Anger is anger —
it allows itself to remain rested,
it allows itself to reflect along the surface undisrupted  ,
with images distorted but whole.

Distorted but comprehensive.

anger is rage —
and rage is not born sudden,
yet still water is shattered in an instant.

as its surface disperse

to be submerged in its depth
to taste its water,
to be mesmerized by its bitterness,
as it grows along the tongue,
becoming a familiar taste,
and familiar tastes are desirable,
as it fills within, only to enhance the thirst,
to breathes its scent,
letting its color stain my skin,
becoming what it holds.

Anger is an emotion.
It allows me to protect the butterfly from the lizard —

or, on occasion,
to become the lizard myself.

Anger is something I can call upon when it’s needed.

Anger is an emotion one I’m not afraid of;
I can contain it within .

But I am truly terrified of rage