Rage, Technically speaking, I am sitting in a cosy armchair. I nearly killed somebody, Driving like a bullet, Cutting corners in a quest for stochastic punishment, Punishing myself for her sins,
And I thought I was building Cathedrals, Amassed heaps of random dreams, And sexual desires, Self-pity dripping persistently, And constant fear of rejection, Were supposed to be formed in bricks, And laid in orderly fashion. Soldier of fortune and Mama-mia Were planned as keystones of the front gates, And Rhianna would top up the spires. What a fucking moron. Nearly 18 years sober, I have learned nothing, I still believe in the goodness, And rightness And Bushi-do
Rage, Words can’t heal, They only aggravate. The sense of betrayal, I believed you my HP I truly trusted in your ordeals, I thought they were for a reason, I dealt with trials and tribulations, In manly way, As taught by the Elders, I’ve even become one of them, Cultivating the virtue of self-forgetfulness And thus self-denial and self-abandonment Maybe, just may be, there was Still too much self In that my struggle for perfect destruction of ego
Rage, Rage of a child, Who doesn’t understand, Why true love is never, Reciprocated. But still believe, In Santa Claus.
