Anger in my core

Hello my name is anger.

Some people call me Carlean.

Yet many seem to refer to me as anger,

And i’m not sure if it’s because I’m a rebellious 18yr old.

It may be that this rebellious 18yr old should be stuck in an anger management with 40 year olds.

Or maybe it’s that my blood boils causing my happiness to evaporate.

Because I’m angry that my grandfather is dead.

Angry that being a person of color is a sin of the man.

Angry that I’m not livin’ life on edge because fear is what keeps my roots grounded.

I’m angry because this thing, this emotion of chaotic destruction.

I’ve allowed it to rain sinking into my very existence.

“Well maybe if you breathe and count to 10”

Well maybe if you counted the endless thoughts that run through my veins.

Screaming, begging, trying to understand this emotion

Maybe, just maybe you’d understand.

That I’m angry at myself for always being so angry

So quick to self destruct

It’s depressing, but that’s another story.

Hold it together Carlean

It’s not that big of deal, Just relax a little.

No!

My anger is like the sun being sucked into a black hole.

Leaving behind an abyss of sadness.

It cradles me at night, comforts me in my weakest moments.

But my anger roars loud

Holding its pride over my head, constantly kicking me in my neck.

Angry that the first man to break my heart was my father.

Maybe it was the day I watched him leave

Or the day he put Terry,Fasi, Omi, and every other woman he soothed before me.

Angry that my mother doesn’t see her worth

Worried that she never will.

Anger is my favorite shirt to wear on a Monday.

Matter a fact anger is the shirt I wear everyday.

It’s a brick wall keeping every other emotion away.

With a sign that dangles in front “Stay Out!”

Lord forbid sadness and happiness get to tango outside the walls.

I’m angry that it costs $21,000 for me to attend school

Yet a $318.23 check is all I have to my name.

Angry that the pain and hurt that built this woman you see before you.

Festers inside me like a broken clock stuck on the 2.

Ticking and ticking and ticking

Angry that my father figure is buried 12 feet deep.

Sharing a coffin with my happiness.

Angry that I let this emotion spread quick.

Like a sickness that dare not ever be spoken off my lips.

My anger is sad song.

Played on repeat, but you still feel your emotions still beat at your temples.

Yet the one thing that angers me the most.

Is myself.