Anger

author's note
I wrote this feeling bad about flipping out on my mom when I know she trys her best for me.
the pent up feeling
of bursting into fury
wishing to unleash Hell
because of past turmoil.
but no,
just keep holding it in
let it eat at you
until you can't take it
the day to day hurt
the day to day pain
even then
just leave it alone.
if you do have a single outburst
of the true feeling within
people will shut you down
since you are not deemed normal
as others want you to.
so we can all just let our anger be
until we snap
and finally release this swarming
burning
painful fury of Hell
on someone who doesn't deserve it
who shouldn't be treated that way.

go

JUST GO
take your bags
leave the people you know.
my heart now,
there's a hole through
I don't care
I simply don't need you.
you don't care
you think you don't need to be there.
you're right,
I will be fine
except what you don't know
is that I'm lying.
people say look at the positives
people say it'll be okay
but people don't understand
they just expect me to flow with the sway.
thanks though
since you helped me see
you're never going to be there for me.
I'm glad you went
to Hell I hope you are sent.
JUST GO.

Throne of the Clouds

*authors note*

I wrote this as a parallel to Carl Sandburg's "Ready To Kill" which is placed lower into the post. It was more or less a contradiction midway through the poem.

God sits and watches,

watches us murder each other,

kill our own kind upon these meadows,

these meadows filled with memories of death,

memories of pain.

petty soldiers send steaming hot lead,

into the bodies of fathers, husbands, and once children,

all being forced into death,

going into death all too abruptly to enjoy life.

ripping apart fellow living,

breathing,

men,

who are now icy,

dead,

men.

all upon these hills of sorrow,

where the grass is freshly doused with blood,

blood of men that God created,

that God protected,

but now, God just sits and watches.

these killers, who thrive for bloodshed,

looking down upon the bodies,

these burnt and torn bodies,

killers stand and smile,

as the dead are their art,

and the living enemy is their pallet.

men like this, they should die!

but does it make it right,

murdering each other?

are we the reason God sits and watches?

because we murder murderers?

Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.

I have gone by here before and wondered about it.

This is a bronze memorial of a famous general

Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver

on him.

I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be

hauled away to the scrap yard.

I put it straight to you,

After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory

hand, the fireman and the teamster,

Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,

Shaping them on the job of getting all of us

Something to eat and something to wear,

When they stack a few silhouettes

Against the sky

Here in the park,

And show the real huskies that are doing the work of

the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,

Then maybe I will stand here

And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag

in the air,

And riding like hell on horseback

Ready to kill anybody that gets in his way,

Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men

all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.