A poem
Anger is a journey.
A length and breadth of time,
when we fail to listen, refuse to see,
and agree only when our own ideas,
are repeated back to us.
It’s a sad face on a doll,
sitting alone;
on a stool in a corner — watching.
Pretending to be alive.
Anger is an edge; a thought,
balanced on the tip of a sword.
Look away and it falls safely to one side -
friendless.
Stare and it’s thrust deeply into someone’s heart
for no reason but a dare.
Anger lives, but only when we breathe into its mouth.
It dies when we shut ours and smile.
