And it rains. Right after I vent my feelings my fury will erupt, but not cool nor cease with this rain…
I am a bitch and a woman, but how do I convince you that I am not a prostitute?
As if anger had to be angered without it getting sore like a wept cheek or a slapped hand.
Between however are sheaths of medleyed coarse defunct layers of unmined trash, and the angst still rots further, so like a ghoul it shall creep out and into skin.
I have surrendered to it my entire being and existential chasm, so that it envelops me and sharpens me like a penetrative sword, the sort that can only become the volley of an army of gents on their way to stupid orgiastic oblivion. It is my carousel, my core, and my dissonance.
My throat croaks it in a subliminal primordial subterranean embryonic roar. Yes, I’m roaring.