Flogging Your Futile Word

They are there. Or at the least the pain is.

The fuel in your chest and head, that

incombustible mass of inert angst begging

for a shore to crash its tsunamis against.

You have Mr. Young’s wail down low in the background

to inspire, but even his 60’s Southern injustice can’t

bring forth the rage energy to get these blister memories

out of your soul and into a world where they can run

until their seething fires burn down.

These winter tundra writes through your most hostile

inconsistencies are the ones that snap your pencils

and smash your keyboards into fine plastic powder.

If only my words had that strong meanness to burst from

my chest and claim their own life far from the small cold

cage my insecurities lock them in.