AngrySomeone told me I sounded angry Like they were admiring my taste in drapes. Kind of in awe of how I got those colors to work. Look buster, here's the thing: The colors don’t work. They are made up of memories I Tend to regard as bad movies That never happened to me. You see, I am Cleopatra. And the only thing you should Be admiring from that anonymous desk Is that I haven't taken a 12 gauge to Mark Anthony and blamed it all On something Caesar did. Queen of denial. Yeah, I'm angry. I just can't say why. I can't even convince myself I'm Not a pathological liar Or just so crazy I inventedmy whole life. What would you be? But hey, it's my pain and I'm Not hurting anyone with it. Every poem I write means one Less scar on my body . . . To match the one on my soul. In this society I could easily Go kill a few people then Whine at the judge and Walk away from it all. But I just sit here quietly writing . . . Being . . . Angry. from the book "stop poking me lady" available at lulu.com

[ Tue, 29 Aug 2006 03:03:11 GMT ]

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