Rage

An internal fire

Sometimes when released

Makes the morning paper

Elsewhere it just may not exist.

Or at least

We try to keep it hidden,

Although for some it is a ritual

Sadly, the evil is forced upon their soul

Such evidence,

So often directed

Their bodies become immune

Anticipating the next blow,

Sustaining all the hurt

That’s why they walk this earth,

To take this asshole’s constant rage,

Though they should not,

Ever.

No rage is deserving of another’s reception,

Only the bearer of a negative response

To the ills that smolder inside their

Illness.

For some, the rage has become so rampant,

There can be little excuse remaining,

In fact none at all, the receptor of another’s

Inability to control their own indignity,

Ought walk away unscathed,

Yet, in our society, it is often the bearer

Remains rewarded long before the sufferer

Heals.

Levels of rage can be a relative

Assortment like candies in a jar.

Picking the wrong one with only one opportunity

To slide your hand inside and choose,

Can create the happiness you seek

Or leave you in a fit of …

Rage.

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