Boiling Anger (Michel’s Poem)

I feel a burning in my chest. A burning that sears my insides like fire on human flesh. Clawing my way to a safer reality.  Feeling unskilled by this numbing sensation of post-mortem, something of a talent I unfortunately am hooked into severely into several fragments of hand held doses resembling anything opposite to purity in love and friendly communication- I run onward into the abyss of hello to a finality called goodbye sweet gentle kiss.  Vibes of corn and stalkings on Christmas, stocks of flowers and terrible wording have my finger tips curling the way my toes surely miss.  I have lost all will to find four quarters to wholeness, and begun reeling out of the ocean mother of gentle embrace to the dry place of barren cold only surrounded by tears without moisture, that tear at my face, until my ears begin to sing sweet lullaby, hello again blood I can hear.  As it drips and I only see, do not feel, feeling only fear inside of me, I burst forward again, twelve out of tenfold folding out of peacefulness into chaotic rage until the day I die, it seems, until I can unmake a due mistake that brought on my stomach’s, heart’s, head’s earthquakes.  I am the duck in the pond, where the swamp swallowed me whole, before the canyon sized bullets filled me with holes.  I am the disappearance of a galaxy, when all has gone still- the voice of tremble and trouble when you hear, I do not see unfamiliarity when you are near, for we are all scared when the crackle begins to make your spread to the same spill in what sound you do not perceive pour onto the ground beneath the cursed feet.  We are broken- we are defeat.  We are the ones who are corrupted, the scorned and the putrid.  We are the pot full of lobsters that are immortal in pain and screaming all in vain, not to be eaten afterwards to dullen our misery- we are ultimate in this perfect form of imperfection, together a drooling and overwhelming infection.



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