Angry
angry
Someone told me I sounded angry
Like they were admiring my taste in drapes.
Kind of in awe of how I got THOSE colors to work.
Look buster, here’s the thing:
The colors DON’T work.
They are made up of memories I
Tend to regard as bad movies
That never happened to me.
You see, I AM Cleopatra.
And the only thing you should
Be admiring from that anonymous desk
Is that I haven’t taken a 12 gauge to
Mark Anthony and blamed it all
On something Caesar did.
Queen of denial.
Yeah, I’m angry.
I just can’t say why.
I can’t even convince myself I’m
Not a pathological liar
Or just so crazy I invented my whole life.
What would you be?
But hey, it’s my pain and I’m
Not hurting anyone with it.
Every poem I write means one
Less scar on my body . . .
To match the one on my soul.
In this society I could easily
Go kill a few people then
Whine at the judge and
Walk away from it all.
But I just sit here quietly writing . . .
Being . . .
Angry.
(c)Cydniey 2005
