Pulling Weeds

Defeated, escaping, hoping no one sees
Breathing short, heart on fire
Fists in my gut want to scream
and punch
and flail
and break
and kill

Blinded, rushing, roiling in the chest
Thinking thunder, Earth too small
Furious raging living tempest
it sears
it cuts
it shrieks
it claws

Heated, shuddering, falling to knees
Swelling eyes, hands are splayed
Whispering lethal obscenities
I'm done
I can't
I hate
I quit

Cheated, splintering, reeling toward the trees
Writhing hatred, mind entrenched
Soul fierce longing for peace
and quiet
and still
and pride
and me

And then.

Knowing it would come, it did. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Why not? Rage. But the sun, it's warm. The valley, it's rich. The mountains, they're bright. The stillness, it's here.



It's a rough cycle, though, getting beyond-frustrated at insignificant things of the day's small tasks, then loathing the self for allowing the fury to begin with. And on and on and on.

Am I such a simpleton that I can't brush it off before it explodes? Is there some monster inside me, growing how big who knows?

It hurts when you can't think much of yourself and if you ever do, you quiet those voices and knock on wood... as if they really knew. And now in reflection, it's always so silly. What a joke, what a funny, he just hiccuped today, that's all. But then really, really, really, is that all it is? Because you know it returns. You know it's not gone. You know you're just pulling weeds.