I'm drowning in perpetual
Anger.

Yet,
no one to
Direct it at.

Maybe it's a sign of the times
Or a symptom of some
Known mental illness,
I have.

I hibernate
In my room
Stewing in my juices-
Running my mind up and down
The tobacco stained walls,
Falling perpetually down,
Like the trails of tar.

At least,
Amongst the dread,
I feel safe in here,
Even though the cabin fever
Is running high.

But I can't make small talk,
Or smile at you,
I'm,
Too ******,
Too jaded,
Too me.

I remain
Anxiously anticipating
A break,
To the silence,
A need for a furious furore,
Some type of tempest.

I am the lord of spite,
Surveying the ruins of a ruined
Life,
Singing the same refrain I always sing,
I hate with a perfect hatred.