Shreds: “Wrath”

So easily do I retreat in wrath
That days may pass with nary a word.
I’ve built a moat ‘round my castle o’ sand,
And wish the rain on others would flood.

Yet, why I suffer, even I cannot say,
Perhaps ‘tis but a maddening obsession;
I’m a sight unfit for eyes, a dismay,
With knuckles white from sheer suppression.

I once believed that writing had a cause,
Beyond mere pride now lost in air,
To leave behind views, landscapes, a pause,
Lives lived, loved, and laid bare.

I thought time would creep more slow,
Yet here at thirty, I clutch my pillow,
Feigning strength where none does show,
Speaking to the darkness, awaiting the glow.

Yet, we, the privileged, speak still in rhyme,
Whose greatest grief or defeat of late
Is but the headache that tolls the chime
Of morning’s curse, our cursed fate.

We have all and nothing, a strange plight,
Beyond our ten crates of Aspirin stored,
And still, we gnash our teeth with spite,
Even ‘gainst the mailwoman’s accord.

So easily do I now turn to be alone,
That sometimes I speak not to myself,
And the worst o’ my woes, now overblown,
Is the man staring back from the shelf.

The room spins ‘round ‘pon the rug
While the world sleeps in stillness, here,
To watch me, foolish and much too snug,
As I curse that beautiful full moon’s leer.