There’s fire in my eyes,
But the blood in my veins runs cold.
This fury,
It’s not a feeling anymore.
It’s who I am.
It owns me whole.
The world keeps pushing me to the edge,
Or maybe
I’ve become the blade.
I can’t tell if I’m the one bleeding
Or the one making others break.
I curse the world for all it takes,
Then blame it when it spites me back.
A cycle I can’t stop spinning in
Red-hot rage and endless cracks.
What am I doing?
Why am I still at war?
My fists are tired.
My voice is sore.
And yet,
I burn for something more.
Not peace or love.
But a reason
To not be angry anymore.
This poem is part of my published collection – The Withering Petals