A Modern Sort of Anger

Img_1051_2by Jai Warya11 Aug 2014

In anger, fury swallows me
whole. Inside it I reside
till it implodes over time.
I may swear, I may threaten
to break-your-fucking-neck…
but that far I never get. Instead
I end up wishing pain
upon you, not inflicting it.
I end up turning pale,
frustrated I cannot hurt you.
At worst I will ignore you,
or stare you down malignantly
(very, very malignantly)
if ever you attempt conversation.

Of course I won’t mind if someone
other than me hurts you,
That’ll please me greatly… I think… probably.

Don’t mistake this for feebleness
for trust me I seldom feel
any emotion other than glee
on ever seeing you in strife.
I delight in your every failure.
But you see this isn't the age
of honor and duels-to-the-death.
Anger rarely achieves fruition.
Its crescendo muted, distorted
by meaningless fits of reason.
I'll never raise a finger
(not even the middle one)
lest I offend you. Commitment
is too hard. Even to hatred.

The situation is so pathetic
that I'll be seething inside
and you won’t even know it.
You’ll just walk past,
maybe even smile at me,
and though I’ll want to curse I know
I’ll hold it back. Rest assured,
in my hatred of you, eventually,
the only person hurt
will be me.