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Notes About The Poem

This piece is a scorched-earth monologue, a performance built from fury, contradiction, and the raw electricity of a man, me, refusing to be buried beneath someone else’s chaos. Part spoken-word, part theatre, part exorcism — where I stand in the centre of a storm not of my making and name every twisting wind for what it is. I have written this in anger.

Self Help: Outrageous Rage

Let it begin like a war drum cracking the ribs of the sky.

I rise here not as a man, 
but as a scorched monument to every lie flung at me like burning tar. 
I rise as the unwanted mirror, reflecting back the chaos she hurls, 
the contradictions she stitches into a patchwork of impossible stories, 
the shrieking, spiralling cyclone of memory shards 
that cut no one more deeply than the truth itself.

I speak from the eye of her storm — 
where timelines collapse, 
where facts melt, 
where every accusation is a ghost wearing borrowed clothes.

She comes at me with fractured recollections, 
with déjà vu hallucinations, 
with dreams mistaken for history, 
with wounds older than my presence 
and shadows she drags from childhood graves 
and tries to nail to my name.

Her narrative is a bonfire of inconsistencies, 
a theatre of shrill laughter and catastrophic leaps, 
a mythology rewritten each time her emotions change shape. 
She is a storyteller lost in her own labyrinth, 
a witness drowning in her own tide, 
a historian who cannot remember her own years, 
yet insists on rewriting mine.

I stand here — 
not begging, not bending — 
but calling the chaos by its true name.

This is not trauma speaking. 
This is not clarity speaking. 
This is the echo of a life lived in storms, 
trying to turn me into the lightning that caused them.

I refuse the role. 
I reject the script. 
I tear the stage apart plank by plank.

If she wants to paint me as a monster, 
then let her confront the truth: 
monsters are made of intention, 
and hers is made of retrospective revelation, 
of partners whispering reinterpretations, 
of therapists planting new meanings in old soil, 
of memories bent, stretched, and re forged 
until even she cannot tell where the truth ends 
and the performance begins.

I am done being the altar 
on which she sacrifices her past.

Let this be the first strike. 
Let this be the opening roar. 
Let this be the moment the ground trembles 
and the sky takes notice.

You wanted outrageous. 
You wanted poetic rage. 
You wanted a platform to build your fire.

Here is the spark.

angerangstspoken word

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