Anger

It coarses through my veins
My blood boils.

My fingers itch for something
to pour out my frustration.
To empty out my worries
My fears.

Failure.
Disappointment.
Rejection.
Loneliness.

I don't want to think of these.
I don't want to - need to - think of these.

My hands long to cry on a piano;
To melodicaly thrash the ivories
Until I'm content.

Because I'm not.

I want to hold someone close
and punch someone in the face.

I want to be eternally silent
and shout until I'm satisfied.

But what I want isn't what I need.
And what I need?
Not what I get.

Perhaps I should stop expecting so much of people; of life.



Perhaps I should just stop expecting anything.