Mr. Anger
Mr. Anger
My friend tipped me over the edge, made my mind fall past the ledge.
I used words that demeaned, expressions that exuded mean,
and when my anger reached its climax
I said:
fuck you.
*
Blood running through my arms,
my fists ready to harm,
my mind screams alarms,
my face starts to scrunch
and my legs begin to bunch,
my arms bout ready to punch.
But when I looked up,
I saw my reflection in the glass,
my face turnt up,
my mind burnt up,
my mouth on the verge of violence,
I recognized this person,
this evil—
I look just like my daddy,
and his daddy.
When my anger boiled,
I turned the stove off before it bubbled,
because I saw myself in the
glass,
and decided not to throw
stone.
*
I looked just like the
face of abhorrence,
I looked like the
creature
I grew up living in
fear,
because
I was
Mr. Anger.
*
I knew this all too well,
from that therapist’s office where I lied and said things were swell,
to the playground,
when my masculinity was challenged
my mind couldn’t seem to balance, when they called me a
homo,
my body began to
rush,
my blood almost seemed to
gush,
my mouth couldn’t
hush,
I said:
“nigga you don’t know me”.
*
My anger felt like fire that
spread,
across my forest it
sped,
like a California
breeze,
it swept over my body and corrupted my
tree,
turned my branches
to ashes,
like a violent killing spree, my blood
rushed.
*
I was exactly what was expected to be:
black,
violent,
and angry.
The image of dark red,
the horrors of blood shed,
I was exactly what was expected to be:
a black,
violent,
non-functioning member of society.
*
When I entered the foster care system,
I was just a number in a
deep
void of
struggle,
I was the status quo for
Black,
emotional control that
lacked,
chains that
snapped,
to make sure I stayed
controlled and
bodied.
*
This sweeping
shock that flows
through my
soul,
the uncontrolled feeling of
heat.
When I ran into the bathroom, I glanced into the mirror,
I recognized the look that leered,
I looked just like my
daddy,
and his
daddy and the
Black men that proceeded—
I was
Mr. Anger.
*
I grew up living in the shadow of a figure of masculinity—
the epitome of everything Black, from the belt,
to the shoe,
to the smoke that blew,
from the tip of a Newport,
this shadow spread,
flew straight to my head,
akin to a camp fire,
my body began
growing in temperature,
every time someone
questioned my authority,
an illusion
of power that
proceeded
my tower,
a peak of anger that headlined the hour;
a coward.
I was what had been,
my disposition
covered in sin,
the shadow had
covered the
unfilled parts of my soul,
and corruption its
goal,
what I had hated,
I was.
*
Mysterious bouts of anger, misguided sheets of rage,
the storybook and my page,
had been filled with intentions
of shameful reign,
sinful pain.
*
My friend tipped me over the edge today,
and when I leered at my reflection—
I saw Mr. Anger.
