"This Rage"
by s.p. burke
As a child, I filled my soul;
packed my wounds, made them whole,
with an antidote, I thought I'd know
would push me. One more day forward
as it raced around my veins,
and leached inside the folds of brain,
gave fleeting alleviation of pain,
and something else to look toward.
I noticed not, its hold on me.
As others saw, I did not see,
a descent, and break from reality
so, "more pills" my Dr. ordered.
I increased its use to hold my ground,
I battened hatches, and doubled down,
self-assured, I'd already found...
my solution to feeling cornered.
Now late in life, and full of regret,
and self-inflicted emotional debt,
from broken promises to death,
this rage now leaves me drawn and quartered.
I'm broken open, and full of holes,
but this poisonous malady knows,
I'm shaky, but finally, behind the controls,
and no longer
feeling
tortured.
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