Bearing No Ill Will

My will is ill, sick, sick, sick with gut-full of menace and bile. Tongue-tied, anger locked-up inside I stayed on the high-side. and let my vicious stinging reply slide. My rehearsals all played-out internal. Oh what doozies I had in store, pre-recorded for live slap down. But the tempest taunt stayed indoors shadow-boxing, shouting out insults to mirrored walls and glass ceilings It was good to lance the boil, pus expelled. The hallowed high ground can be a lonely place where restraint quells the struggle locked-in. The squirm and fraught fight fades to frustration by doggedly accepting that I made the right decision. On another day, things stored away will surface in a considered way. Be calmer, let Karma's retribution gel Bring it on!