St Patrick's Day Madness

In me I find a conflict, opposing forces, the first nurtured by choice, latter by circumstance. So much love, so much gentleness, and yet so much rage, so much fervor. I want to be free of this anger. I want to not bloody my knuckles, when I can't turn a key the right way. I want to not wake a friend late at night, when I can't figure myself out. I want to do all this, and yet I revel in the anger and in the power; in the rush it brings; in hitting something for once; in a maddened, violent release. I want to use it the way I used to. I want it to be for defense, to fight back, to help, to stand. I want it to be for the bark and the bite, towards hate to be directed and plied. I want my shoulders to be free, of the devil whispering for its release; of my demons screaming for theirs; of the claw marks of their successes at digging in; of the weight of carrying them all. Alas, what we choose is not given to us. Only two things are given to us: surprises, for good or ill, and the chance to meet them, to face them.