Getting angry makes me angry.
Yes, I said angry
– at myself -.
All those moans
and undertones
Pulled unkindly
from the shelf where I,
I fear, was
unaware of
Their existence up
to when
They tumbled on my
bumbling brain
To ruin reason end
to end.
Not unusual, you
see, to
Wear robes of
anxiety
To face the fear,
to fight or flee
With angry
overtones.
But I cannot abide
with this
To let the anger
steal my bliss
And toss me in a
dark abyss
To muddle and
bemoan.
Striving for that
higher ground
Where skies are
clear and air is pure,
Where anger
quickly dissipates
And bliss may long
endure.
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