You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘anger’ tag.

The **** giveth and the **** taketh away
But *** is a little bitch
Who takes all the Poppies away.

I harbour ill will
Passive murder in the Time of Eve, bloodshed
Another lost life
At the hands of God’s wrath

Down the toilet
Literally down


I’m tired of her

I’m tired of hearing her

I’m tired of seeing her


Since she’s on her way to good health

or on her way to not-so-bad health


Her complaining and her refusals

are symptoms of a petulant child

I have no patience for


Since she’s going anyway

I wish her gone already

I yelled at my brother because he wronged us, because he wronged me. My aunt is suffering through cancer treatment that will most likely result in her death, but the odds being what they are and her will to live being what it is, there’s no other option. I yelled at my brother because he wants to believe she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s drugged up. That she mindlessly drifts in and out of a slumber from which she remembers nothing.


She’s conscious, you idiot.


I realized that he wants to believe—and the rest of them as well—that she’s dying without pain. I think it’s cruel of me, but I tell him, no, she is not out of it and she feels lonely and unloved and how could you not call her ahead of time to say you changed your mind and weren’t going be there?


I don’t know what it’s like to be her. In my own narrow-mindedness, I think I would like being alone. It’s heartbreaking, though, to see someone alone who doesn’t want to be. To figure out that your friends and your family are no where to be found. That you have less than a handful of caring people who visit you and a niece you were never close to as your primary source of support.


So I yelled at my brother, because he has illusions of his own good-guy and godly grandeur. He will tell you about Jesus, if you want. He will invite you to church. He’ll tell you God will set you free, but I imagine he would look puzzled if you asked him if he actually follows the WWJD mentality. For example, would Jesus bail on His aunt? How would my brother have felt if he were left to rot within the confines of four white walls and a number on his back? The rest of my family, they will shoot the breeze with you. They’ll adamantly make promises and say they are 100% behind you…unless they are out any gas money to come see you.


So, there you’ll be. Alone when you don’t want to be. Unloved. A chore and a burden. Outright, no one even bothers to say you’re not a bother.


You are a bother. You will continue to be a bother. Can you die now and let us bury you in the mud where you won’t take up our time and energy?


So I’ve made matters worse, at least for him. Now in addition to my unaccommodating aunt and her silly sickness, I have inconvenienced my brother with my anger. Why do you have to be like that, he asks. I repeat his question with bitterness in my voice.



I hang up.

WTF, world. I am enraged that someone planted a bomb in our head of the medical board’s car (I’m an Arkansan, dear reader). Now, he may or may not be a good person or a good doctor–I know nothing about him–but no one deserves to be blown up as they head to work. I am glad he has survived and hope he recovers as well as he can. He’s lost one of his eyes, has been burned, and suffered shrapnel injuries. He may lose the other eye.

I’m angry because I have been at the bedside of the dying, watching a family member suffer through the fear and pain of facing her morality. One of my former students was murdered this year. I’ll be damned if I don’t say I hate anyone who would murder another person.

Life is meandering and stupid

Let’s get to the fucking punchline already

Let’s laugh at everyone else

and pretend none of the pretention applies to us

Let’s point and stare at all the idiots

Let’s be above them

Let’s ruin our days, years, lives

and never know what for

or why or how come

Let’s do this because we have been patiently waiting for the funny part of the joke like cattle going to the slaughter.

*Written by emerging poet extraordinaire, Straight Up Carol

To my dearest.

Fuck you for leaving me.  I actually loved you. 

I actually loved you and that is why I am hurting so much

even now after all this time.

You seem to be doing fine and I am still openly hurting.

Fuck you for not loving me enough
maybe you didn’t even love me at all. Fuck you.

This is an email I sent to poeticgrin a while back. Forgive my language.



  • would like to knock the shit of the Wii versions of clueless dumbass and herself.
  • wants to rage against the machine but something within her is preventing her, forcing pressure to well up, and that’s never a good fucking thing.
  • is more than miffed.
  • is angry.
  • should let it go, but does not seem to have any knowledge of how to do that.
  • maladaptively wishes she had an ambien/benadryl cocktail. (She’s not creating another such cocktail with Lunesta.)
  • is tired of her goddamn knee aching.
  • is tired of her goddamn being aching.
  • is tired of being tired and so fucking goddammed disappointed.
  • would like to say fuck it to one and all and would most noteably enjoy saying that to her own self.
  • is sighing.
  • is mad that he sounded confused when she is the one confused, goddammit, and is offended that he then said in the course of the fucking conversation that he was trying to go back to where he came from early. Insult, injury, hurt feelings. Even though I was so close to not caring.
  • is embarrassed that in the span of an evening, she has been reduced back down to zero. And for that, she is unforgiving.


It’s like learning any other new behavior or cognition. It’s the same as learning relaxation techniques or to challenge cognitive distortions. Anyone will tell you, these things take time, you’ll have setbacks, the thing is to keep at it. Okay, fine. So it’s hard to it when shit goes down because I feel as though I care. I feel frustrated because wires cross or don’t connect at all. I just have to repeat it, a mantra, over and over: fuckitfuckitfuckitfuckitfuckit.


And then.


Beneath my eyes but above my cheek

I feel angry tears

almost forming

but not even bothering to rise to the surface

because it doesn’t even matter

why I’d be angry or why I’d cry

because I’m not supposed to care

sometimes I manage

and sometimes I don’t


Fuck it.

SOB with me

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