Fury

...it hounds me. every step, all my moments of weakness, even wine pulls it on rather than dismissing it. Only now there is comfort in the fury.

I rest into it, or attempt to. No patience, a sense of loss. I have had this process, a series of peaks and valleys between grace without comfort and awkward stabs at ease that evoke furious self doubt and brash lunges into darkness. I express my fury alone, drunk and miserable. But at least fully expressed.

Chipping Away Into Me

...once more is present in me
In my choice dismissed

By a clipped purse
of the lips --askance.

A hot ball in my belly where
My emotion roils oblique

Left with decision to tighten
Out to the right but inside
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When I write this stuff it only grinds away, I'm stuck with this tightness inside, no outlet, I'm only staring at what's wrong but doing nothing. Nothing. The fear and anger part. Fear. Anger.

I hate it when I write this stuff, trying to describe myself using poetic tropes that I never fit into. That the status of my being can't fit into.

I'm feeling the broken of my record but I can't jump the grooves...only skip staccato. It hurts but not enough. And what is the payoff here? What do I win by sticking to my story?