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.
you're never far from the surface these days."