Sitting at the Anger Bar a stewing.
Dishing and venting with the bartender,
An urge to have another round, brewing.
Fighting the anger-holism overtaking
*
Me. Where the last round “tastes(sh) like anothers,”
And this is where the real trouble begins…
Drunk on power, sole focus my druthers
Slurring amidst an apoplectic fog.
*
Struggling to form coherent words and phrases
With points to make, internal fight ensues.
Self-compassion saunters in and erases
The bottomlessness of my roiling rage.
