Cacophany

Where harmony hoards the supposed hurt, Symphonies belie me. I rein myself in to not be curt, But noise surrounds me. Where time heals the freshly toiling, I have old, murky bloodstains Yet no one sees how quietly I'm boiling Until the tipping point I shall hide my pains. Why such a discordance in my disposition? I desire to mourn the impact of this tyranny Is this prophetic or an imposition? It's difficult to overlook the irony. Someday I will explode, not implode A magnetic, magnificent starburst. For now, continue, continue to goad, But this cacophony will not halt my bloodthirst.