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.

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