It's irrational
It's insane
It's so righteous
And pure
It's all these things!
It soaks inside of me
Like a fucking sponge
Absorbing everything,
Consuming all,
Ready to feast
When I falter.
It goes by many names
All of which are one.
It has no pattern.
No conscience.
No face.
No body.
Except mine
And those of us who
Give in.
It oozes,
It wears our skin,
It seeps into every
Little pore.
This is anger.
They are hatred.
We are rage.
YOU ARE READING
Voices {Poetry from the Fringe}
PoetryA collection of poetry from the recesses of my mind. Don't expect too many updates or award-winning stuff here. My poetry "skillz" are still amateur, and I don't write it often.
