My anger & I

​I can be exceptionally subtle.


I can keep how I feel inside.

I can communicate out the issue effectively.

I can keep things rational and reasonable.

Best of all, I don’t dwell.


I do not like my anger.

I do not like how it overpowers, how it seems to know better, how it snubs reason.

It doesn’t really need a reason, it just likes to be seen and heard.

I find my anger makes me angry, and there begins a vicious cycle that doesn’t stop until I’m someplace where I have control.

I find it collects things. I find it picks shit up, looks after it, nurtures it — makes sure that shit still stinks years later.

I do not like how my anger dislikes me with such disrespect.

My anger forgets that I’m better than that.

I am stooping to meet myself.

All my anger does is make me look like a twat.

I’m hissing and stropping, snapping and snipping — I’ll even shout if I get the urge — and it’s all over nothing, really. It’s all an overreaction because that’s the best way to be seen and heard.

It likes to be heard, but then why doesn’t it be honest and plainly say what’s twisting its nuts?

Because it’s nothing.

In the great big scheme of things fuck all has happened bar maybe a minor inconvenience or a little slight it’s seen with its beady eyes.

When something of note does occur, nothing. My anger turns all shy.

Aw shucks, isn’t that sweet?

I’d just find it more helpful if my anger worked with me instead of undermining this who I am.

Tomos James