Does my anger make you nervous?
   As it growls, crouched low on its hunches.
Prowling the shadows of my psyche while you cower?
   Do its screams make you squeamish?
As acid fills its mouth, melts its teeth, and drips like flames mixed with bubbling tongue.
   My rage bleeds violence, breeds chaos while it smiles feigning calm.
Rarely it wakes because grinning feels better than smashing holes into wall,
   But when it does, I've been told, its not fun for anyone
Because its mean and it enjoys to hurt and it swipes at you with poisoned sharpened talons.
   Does that frighten you?
Do its eyes maleficent green, tell you to run?
   If it does, than don't.
Don't run because it will chase,
   And what it chases,
It will catch,
   And what it catches, like a cat,
It will play, drag out, and torture.
   It usually sleeps like the dead and it hates to be woken.
So be scared of my rabid pet of rage because the leash around its neck has knots from past rips and snaps of leather.

Be terrified.