I am anger.

I dress in scarlet red,
I need an outlet,
anything or anybody.
I am related to bitterness,
I am birthed,
in your darkest moments.
Who am I?





Once more I head nose down,
into the treacly blackness.
Something twigs in my
mind that it’s happening
again. There’s no
methodology for pulling
out. No magic bullet or
a tried and trusted technique.
It’s only a combination of
prayer and denial that seem to
work, but for how long?