Tired of Being Angry

I’m tired of being angry, of this heat within my chest.

Yet as I think of giving up my grudge I know that rage is best.

For I will not cry surrender, for that way lies despair.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

My life would be so easy, if I didn’t not care.

What happened to compassion? Why is kindness a dirty word?

Victory at any cost? My vision becomes blurred.

I remember a better time, or perhaps I’m just naïve.

It was full of hope for a future I now know I shall not see.

Once in a generation recessions twice, and a pandemic rather rare.

As we face the mindless derision, of our brainwashed forebears.

“Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”

So proclaims purest poppycock.

But how can you explain to a bootlicker

The meaning of paradox.

I’m tired of being angry

But I’ll be damned if I stop.