Anger flows through my veins. It runs in my bloodline.
I didn't start it. I don't know who did.
I watch him grin at crime, shoot projectiles to the field.
I'm not cautious of his fists, but of the audacity he may yield.
I watch his blood boil, his eyes filled with rage.
I am stronger, so why am I afraid?
I turn my head upwards, and my eyes meet a threat.
I see the walls of my new room, adorned with previous dents.
My new lamp is still on, a reminder of when she decided to go.
When she pushed out the screen, bare feet landing on snow.
It didn't start with me, but I wont end it either.
It's too late for that, and I am no dreamer.
I see my reflection, but it's not my own face.
I see my own anger. I'm not ashamed. I am afraid.
YOU ARE READING
Poems probably
Poetrythe later parts are a lot better than the first ones in my opinion. I looovvvveeeeeee using allegories? and shit in my writing especially with like space and nature and stuff. Most of this is poems but every now and then i just yap. Some im so prou...
