Anger

Truth upon my rage,

Too real for anger to accept.

Too pure for egos to confront,

Too vulnerable to connect.

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Aint the red just on my lashes

and not in their complexion?

It preaches through a tongue of flames,

but instinct often calls for correction.

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Lingering as a brewing vagabond,

prone to those or pained.

To blend a hole that can't be filled,

or seeming purpose that can't be gained.

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Hurting of its owner alone,

in irony of its intentions.

If you'd blow a wind that shaves the flames,

Well, that would be a nice invention.