The anger that comes at night — I tenderly ask
myself where does it come from? Where does my anger
originate and incubate into the festering liquids drizzling
down my throat? The daunting winds lashes thick scars
against still rocks. The world is where I come from
never felt so dauntless, where pleasure unto others
requires pleasure written in sonder. The life of others
confused me at a young age. Taking life from others
felt so listless. When the words creep down my mouth,
when the need to touch becomes so bare, I cannot
help but to wretch, to bring my hands against my face,
hoping that the world might return to darkness, when
crows scream loudly at the sun, when words spoken
feel right. I look at the sky with eyes of anger, of anger
I cannot understand. It is an anger derived from
passion, where puppets were thrown into a fire.
I was the puppet with limbs so bare, so wooden
the trees would call me one of their own. So alive
I wouldn’t know where the tiptoes crashed in horror.
Forever forgotten with the hapless need to create
stories written to be told in haste. I hear those stories
written to be heard by someone, someone who has
empathy. That is not me. That is not the person I was
born to be. Empathetic souls were born in June, and
I was born in July. I missed the month by a couple days
past, and I left that possibility in the past. It is not a
life for me. It is not a life that I wanted. June was furious
when Jupiter sought to leave, yet July does not have
this history. July is the month I lived. June is the month
I died. To listen to the anger of the sun is not what
I was born to do. To hear the stories that were told
by the sun is not the story I agree. The shallow cloud
held so deep that one day the sun would be its savoir.
I look at the cloud and blow my wind, knowing that
clouds only move when they are told to do so. But
when a cloud does not move when they are moved,
the thought of it does not please me. I seek to move
the cloud as it was intended. I hear the stories that
it will change. The cloud moves with its simple nature,
and I move on with my life as I do. I miss that cloud that
day, but not because the cloud had something for me.
I miss the cloud because I like blowing the cloud, watching
it rip apart in the wind. I was born in July. I missed the cloud
by a few short seconds, yet chase the cloud I still do. It
is not because I want to catch the cloud, as opposed to
rip it all apart again.