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I feel it bubbling up yet my demeanor's next to calm,
the fire builds within until my head and neck are warm,
a key has been inserted in the hole that locks the cage,
and turns my hazel green eyes blue; dear God please stop the rage,
that threatens to consume the very essence of my soul,
I'm not sure if the stress that's thrown's a test of my control,
but if it is I have to say my pencil point is broke,
I feel I should be laughing yet I can't pinpoint the joke.
There's something grabbing at me trying to run me down as well,
I'm treading in a lake of gas; at risk to drown in H3ll,
the fire cooks my skin 'til it begins to brown and swell,
descending into darkness like I'm falling down a well.
I'd go to jail for murder yet the thrill is in my sin,
to wrap my hands around her neck and kill her with my pen,
I use but then the ink becomes infernos crowning high,
a bow tie of emotions only dress me down to die.
I'm sure you think I've lost it but amazing is the text,
that circulates in jest; you stand adjacent to correct,
but every line that's written cools the flames and dies them down,
they'll soon be ghost like Kanan in a big rich kind of town.
The anger is subsiding now; my eyes are turning back,
until the whites are showing and the sky is turning black,
I'm sometimes flabbergasted at the hatred spawned and wow,
the shining sun conveying that the rage is gone....for now.
©2018
