I’m Angry. Can You Tell?
I’m Angry. Can You Tell?
I also write poetry. I prolly write more poetry than anything else really.
Anger is easy to feel.
Easier to manage than abandonment,
Easier to manage than bitter disappointment,
Easier to manage than crippling despair.
It is so easy to feel fiery fury,
And expect justice to soothe those flames.
It is so easy to be in denial
To cling to it.
To let it have you think things can be different,
That it can be better.
If only you are are angry enough,
Passionate enough to command change in every facet of the universe.
So yes, anger is easy.
Easy to swallow,
Easy to let burn,
Easy to pull out and use as a shield.
It is easy as it is empty.
Fruitless in its gains
Barren in its answers
A tempting, hellish, warm, void for the lost who cannot deal with the cold, unfeeling nature of life.
And yet to embrace life as frigid is to surrender.
It is to resign yourself to a dreary, insipid existence,
An existence of the same ruthless, unwavering pain.
Rage cannot change circumstance,
But submission will yield no revolution.
Be enraged,
Angry,
Pissed,
Fucking furious.
For you burn bright as you do, if only for yourself.
Be weary and disillusioned when there is nothing left but Death’s waiting hand,
Be weary and disillusioned when you can do no more.
Yield your rage when there is nothing left to burn.
It is easy to be angry.
Easier than holding expectations,
Easier than nobility,
Easier than infinite patience.
And for peace, it is just.
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IM CRYING THIS IS SO FUNNY
coming home from the failed siege at the burial mounds and ur son is looking at u weird bc you’ve always sworn that the yiling laozu was a ruthless savage beast who snapped ur arms and legs personally and y’all just spent the last 6 hours watching a charismatic twink in the presidents underwear do group conflict resolution
Whatever That is Left
There is a deepening void somewhere in her chest.
It's inky darkness poisons her smile,
Breaking it down and reshaping it into something more cruel and lifeless.
But there is a shimmering layer of what is left of her.
It sits at the bottom of that hole, like a fine dusting of sugar on the best sweets.
Happy memories and love and ambition and joy lie somewhere in between,
It tries and tries to push her forward and just barely supplies her breaths.
But every time, without fail, she reaches deeper and deeper into herself to pull out what little is left,
And offers those splintering pieces to be soothe and provide.
They are rarely every returned in good health.
So often, she is left pillaged, burned, brutalized, and diminished
And ready to go again,
To scrape out whatever that is left,
And to display it with broken and bleeding hands to her world once more,
Until there is nothing but a pit where she had once glimmered gleefully and open to the world.
everyone's got that one homie who zealously adheres to his inflexible code of honor even though it has long since become a burden to him
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ibecreating-hopefully reblogged this · 6 years ago
honestly, to get back to creating things and I missed having a blog to document it all so 😌
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