Listen to poem:
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!
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