(Poem 119 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My anger used to be the
kind that exploded like an
overheated pressure cooker.
I think it’s because I used
to care; it hurt to feel like
a last resort afterthought.
Now my anger is the kind
that pools in a dirty puddle
and breeds mosquitos.
I think that’s because my
will to care has turned
stagnate, a film formed on
the surface like old milk.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio on 4/29/24 @ 9:39pm – 119th poem of the year
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