Getting Anger Wasted

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.

A wildcat has its mouth wide open bearing its teeth with its eyes squinting shut.
Photo by Pixabay:



Queer Writer & Poet | Sex and Sensuality | Health and Wellness Interests | Personal Experience | LINKTR.EE/TOLBERTMBB | Instagram @tolbert_on_medium

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