Getting Anger Wasted
a runaway quatrain
A poetic re-telling of how I am handling the first stage of grief.
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.