When I feel safe enough to allow indulgence,
I luxuriate in the anger, the boiling energy,
ecstasy of self-elevation into scenarios of revenge,
retribution, redistribution of pain.
Invisible, passive, placid to surface gaze,
not because I am unfeeling.
I feel intensely, ungated flood that overwhelms
cogent thought, effective action.
Emotion is an indulgence to satisfy in private
I am no avenging demon, no champion,
no rebel, not even a pawn for a cause.
Vermin, just a scrawny scavenger,
a very little cause or consequence.
The only feeling that drives my action is
abject hunger, the force of brutal survival,
energy with which to move forward to
suck out more energy to continue.
Elongated sadness, pointless rage,
cycles and seasons and hunger
This is not suffering.
This is life everlasting.
This is raw laughter
in the face of eternity’s smug sneer,
self-indulgence, the freedom of mindless rage,
unfocused, impotent, mine.