It corrodes my veins while flowing through me,
This thing they call violent rage.
It's so simple you would think
How something I can't see controls me.
Anger controls my reaction to many things, even some just so simple that would make someone giggle in utter disbelief over how trivial something is.
I feel white hot anger coarsing though my finger tips;
I feel release when I punch holes in doors with my elbow that leaves a gnarly bruise up the back of my arm, which was beautiful and the pain was exsquite, almost orgasmic.
I laugh maniacally as I throw things at someone who's made me angry. Breaking a plate or a mug is safer than me clawing up your face.
Anger is my dirty mistress, and I can't leave her. I think I love her.
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