Anger kills.

I saw that book and thought, cool! I will take a look at that one. Well, it was all about how it can kill you by having a heart attack.

Anger kills, and it does not just kill me, come on!

It can kill you, and you, and you, and you.

How did I get here floating around taking a look at that emotion, that feeling, that seemingly weapon of destruction?

I read the newspaper. The man said he would never know what his children would look like because they killed her.

Anger stagnates.

I don’t understand anger as much as I don’t understand love, and it seems that my library has more books that one can imagine, but very, very few on what anger is. Maybe what it does, but what about what it is?

What about indignation, trepidation, assassination, regression, exhaustion, transformation, mechanization, falsification, fabrication, concentration, vilification, incantation…..pain.


What about when you are killed and you are the one who cannot get on and you are the one who will be there when they get out because they never go in, they never go in. They go free and you are the one in the cell with three hots and a cot, and the monkey is on your back and not on theirs. It teases our brain by picking in your ear, and it slowly kills you. You know you cannot go without it, because if you do, you will go fucking insane! The monkey is nothing and the monkey is everything. The crown that is yours is taken and hidden, and you know it is around, but you cannot seem to find it. It is so damned hard to shine when your light is always put out. They blow on that candle so the wax gets all milky, then the dust settles on it and the only way to remove the dust is to light the damned candle and burn it off, burn it off, burn it off, and you go up in flames.

That is what anger does

It breaks you… breaks me.

Within there is love in those eyes of the small child who watches so intently and I wish she would say something so what she says with her presence isn’t so glaringly real, so true, and you say….but it is you.

There is love in those eyes that I hate me for doing everything that has been done to that small child…but I could not do anything else. I listen so intently and hear for all that time, all the things that go on in my head that I have never had the desire to listen to before. I really never listened much because then I figured I would validate and if I validated….


Perhaps it would become real and I do not want the things in my head to be real because it scares the shit out of me sometime, most times.

I am having a very difficult time acknowledging any anger and bleeding, bloody bleeding all over the pages with nothing but anger and probably more.

I am having a very difficult time with it because I think it (anger) should not be there because it really does not feel like it is my nature. More like it is an alien invasion of emotion. It is as if it is something was planted there long ago, though it really did not look right. Kinda like putting a bright red table in the middle of a room. It just seems to stand out and not fit and your eyes keep being drawn to it and you would really like to throw it out with the garbage, but you know you spent so much money on it that the cost seems greater than the invasion of esthetics.

So you apologize for it when people come over. You try throwing cloths on it, but they are never big enough; or else they are too big and it just seems to draw even more attention to it. You hate how it looks, and you try to ignore it, because it is not what you ordered and it is not what you want but you need some sort of table and this was there for the having. You were willing to pay for it because your need seemed so great and now you continue to kick yourself in the ass for spending even a penny on something so horrendous. It really looked cool and it really looked strong and it really made an impression. You thought you could live with it, but you had no idea that you would start dreaming of it, and then start wondering if you should not just fucking burn it, but you cannot because the laws will not allow you do to that. You cannot chop it up because you do not have an ax. You just walk around it; and you hate it so, so, so very much; and you start wondering how you can just put it into the basement perhaps but that is still a mess and the last thing you need is one more thing tossed down when you want it all clean.

Therefore, anger doesn’t seem to fit, and I really do not want to acknowledge it existence because then it become real, doesn’t it?

I do not want it real because I think it is quite ugly and it becomes monster people who do monster things. You don’t even know why you’ve tossed the knife but you know it had to be from you because you are the only other one in the room, so all you can say is that you didn’t mean to do that – it must be an accident and I’m glad that I missed you. Until, that is, you reach under your bed to pull whatever bludgeoning tool you have hid, and you know how to do it because you dream of it always but

Somebody, somewhere, whispers in your ear “not today dear darling…..not today.” You say ok and watch as your hand slowly creeps back to your pillow and you wonder what you could have been thinking of doing.

That is what anger does when it is real, and it is real, and it is real ugly; I really do not like it and do not know what do to.

I went to the library in search of an answer and wound up with books about love on my table – go figure!

Seems the public library in our town has many books and so many on God, and the gods, and the searches and more than one can count on sex and dysfunction with lots of searching for love but almost nothing seems to exist that can tell me just what a thing like anger is.

I tried to look up rage yet there was nothing at all, nothing at all, and the library is attached to other databases so you would think that somebody would have something about the one fucking thing that kills

And it kills, and it kills all sorts of types, all ages

They put out those damned self-help books because we are all supposed to know our answers. Well! Sometime we may be searching for fact and sometime we may just want a little direction and sometime we may only want a defined definition like maybe something just a little more that the words listed in the dictionary because they are so shallow and have no depth and anger has depth. It is deeper than anything is.

Except love which is everything.

That is why I do not like to think that anger can become real, because once it is real then it becomes

We really have no control over what it becomes.

I pulled out some books from the library the other day all about love and I read them today and will not stop reading them for I find there are truths, and the truths can be real if we make them. the only way to make them, I think, is to ask God to do it, but we must be able to ask. So I cry to my god on my knees each morning and night and ask him to show me, as hard as it is, to show me a new way because I do no ever want to be what hanger had made me, formed me

I scare people sometimes.

They think I have it all so together and am such a happy person and such a pretty girl yet they do not want to think there is anything ugly lurking beneath the thing that they see. Yet do not we all have some uglies lurking just below the surface. We all have those damned secrets that secrete once in a while.

When I write my heart is calmer and does not beat quite so hard. I cannot see each beat pound through the shirts I wear. So I beat on the keys and I begin to learn to cry.


~~jules sortor