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The Anger Speaks To Me


The anger speaks to me of some long distant
fear.  I do not remember becoming angry, only
that I am angry.  The anger is hidden, or so I’d
like to think, deep inside a vault alongside the
fear.  The fear provokes the anger and uses it
to deflect its sense of defenselessness, its
certain knowledge that there are demons in
the mind that torture the soul and threaten
the fragile peace.  The fear does not understand
that the anger cannot protect it from the demons,
for the fear is of the demons, the presence
of their past.  The anger hides in hate, or so it claims,
to hate this, and that, to hate them all.  Who are
they?  And why such a heinous hatred toward
them?  Perhaps the demons have become the
fear and the hate, have duped me once again
into protecting them, concealing them in
dark and painful places in my soul.  It would
be ironic if the fear and anger’s masquerade
as hatred is their ultimate charade, their Fait
Accompli, a psychic Trojan horse.  Still
the anger speaks to me, screams at me,
belittles and berates me as a coward,
giving me no peace, no solace from the
hate the demons planted long ago and
left to torture me, and all who came to
know the anger, and to feel its wrath.
The anger speaks to me and I am unable,
or too fearful, not to answer.
I have a sense that the last refuge of the
demons is in the fear and anger, but
I am afraid and I am angry
and I hate it.




John G. Lawless
2013

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