Coming Loose

Coming Loose 

Shouting long distance,

the uncontrollable urge to

“let it out!”

Foaming at the mouth,

I see what 

I want to see

and nothing more.

Nothing more.

I feel infected,

no infectious,

what is anger

without pain;

salt in the water.

Bending down 

to touch soil,

consumed in the moment

in the movement,

the unmistakable feeling

that I have no idea

how to play this game.

Just a piss-poor imitation,

intimidated.

Yet I know rage

and the flower of frustration,

beckoning for someone

to kill this god damn whale.

So I can sink

in the dark mud.