I am angry, fed up and totally pissed off,

Don’t put me down or dare to scoff,

I’ve had enough, I’m going to blow,

It won’t be pretty, but one hell of a show.

Beneath the calm, where my anger sleeps,

A fire starts in caverns deep

Not yet loud, not wild, no dramatic stage,

But slow and thick, a fermenting rage.

It curls like yeast in old whisky jars,

Feeding dark on long hidden scars,

A quiet hiss a patient swell,

A heat too hot too sharp to tell.

You would never know by glance or lack of smile,

How long it has brewed, how rank how vile,

Not vinegar, not yet, not quite,

But souring day by day until it’s ready to bark and bite.

Each slight, each cut, each word unsaid,

Turns sugary blood to wrath instead,

It is chemistry, not cruelty’s choice,

But rage when ripe, demands a voice.

So when it spews, don’t act surprised,

This rage was bottled, corked but not disguised,

You watched me simmer with accelerated pace,

You’ll taste it now, with regret and remorse across your face,

Thunder will rumble in my throat,

Let this cracked resolve no longer float,

For I have steeped too long in pain,

And I am done containing this ferocious flame.