Dear A

Dear Anger

I’m in a turrets like mood were fuck is the only word to describe it

I’d like to slam my head in a fucking door but even apathy is being a twat

When your hairs stand on end it means you’re cold.

I am cold.

I want to thaw and be cold.

And when I am cold I will regret it like so many other things that influence the abstract in my brain. Knowing isn’t believing

Simply... I don’t believe and I wish I didn’t know.

Full stop.

Continue.

War.

I am burning flowers.

I am burning beautiful.

Without direction and without cause I criticise my own frustration.

I want to shout.

I want to rupture my lungs.

But I don’t want anyone to hear me.

I just want to curse in my own echo.

But why don’t you understand?

My moments of silence are drowned in noise.

Signed your sincere friend.

the ink from my pen ran out

out it ran dribbling like a drunken tonk

trying to be elusive

it spread like a contagion in the white of a

blank page

it was obvious

the ink had a genome

it could dance in time

and reap the crop of words

but such copulation leads to the

breaking of the page

I'll chuck it in the bin?

there's a daring spin

put that in your pen and write it.

smite it.

disguise it.

burn it.

no blank page.

need some sage.