Anger

Anger-01/01/2015 by Emily Sturgill

Anger is…

A rose color river

of flesh & blood

an eruption of Lava

a tornado without a passage

a volcano without any thought

a clinched fist you do not know you are making.

a tight grasp and grip

onto a stroke

of thunder & lightning.

Anger

this abstract emotion

Anger

is

this ugliest of potions

it swallows me whole

just to spit me back out.

I do hurtful things

to those I care

the most about.

Anger is fury

colored crayon color Red

It is

screaming, yelling and shouting

It does not

just break down the door-it kicks it right in!

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Anger

is universal. An emotion we all have gotten,

whether we care too, or not.

It is the litmus test of Forget-me-nots,

and roses turned spoil-

a lingering rotten smell

as feelings decay

as thoughts do stray

as humans hold grudges

as ships crash then burn

many shipwrecks occur

many wars do too

all in the name

of Anger, its felt universally,

much the same.

At the edge

I sit here

at the edge.

Realizing that my life

is nearly half-over.

I just turned 39 roughly 8 weeks ago.

My concerns are much different

than the average Gal.

I’m blessed that genetically- i still get carded for things

I could easily pass for 20 something,

yet here i sit on the edge of 40.

Not many wrinkles, or even gray hairs-

none of that concerns me anyways.

My concern, is much more personal.

I feel like I have barely begun.

That I have not done much so far-in my life.

that I have so many dreams still to accomplish,

that I have yet to leave my mark or stamp on things.

that no one will remember me years hence

when I am gone.

It saddens me greatly-to have never had children.

I feel I have no legacy,

besides poetry and artwork,

and in times of twilight

those too will surely fade away.

I will be like the sand at the shore then.

The sand that goes in and out with the tide

disappearing at your feet

like it never was there really at all.

Searching secrets

Searching among a sea of Secrets.

Looking for answers buried deep

inside my core

So much slips by

my subconscious eye.

 

Somedays I do not know

where I begin and where my illness,

fits in.

Stability is the ultimate goal.

To mend what is broken

To become whole.

 

Yet the parts I try

to deny linger and remain

a constant refrain in the chorus

which settles for

background music of a sort,

the melody of manic-depression.

 

So much regression, so much tug & back

then forth-some days I have clarity

and others I wish I did not.

The stuff I block out

The mysteries of that which makes me-

me.

 

Knowingly, I must struggle

to accept all the parts of my self

even the sick bits and pieces-

until I am able to embrace it all

to stake a claim-

there remains

a subdivision between this mood

or the next.

 

Trying my best, not only

to recover but to re-discover

the parts I try best to never see.

The big, the bad, the ugly

even the beautiful

of me.