Longing For Anger

Burning within me the passion lies. Not passion of pleasure, but passion of pain; the bestial anger boils in my veins, sears my flesh, reddens my eyes. I yearn to revel in its fury, let fall the soothing hand that guards against its rise; I welcome its enveloping heat, born in the forges of circumstance and tempered in the fires of self-loathing. I cannot taste its sweet embrace for long, however; civility counsels caution and control. With disappointment I push it all back down to its pit; the beast cries out in protest, desperate for the agony, the torment, the tears - anything but to be repressed; better the lash of the whip than the cold of ages spent alone. In appeasement, I whisper; "You shall not be forgotten. I feel your hunger always, for retribution, for vengeance, for respect - but rarely can I sate it. You give me fierce satisfaction, a primal fury released - alas, you cause damage I cannot fix. Worry not; you're never far from the surface these days."