Rage

there is rage that chokes me,
really, forces something in my throat to close
and the air becomes difficult to breathe in
like walking into a sauna heated by a volcano.
I don’t know what it is, where it is,
i’ve never been able to pinpoint why it is,
but the sky seems black and the edges close in,
the same as a fading TV commercial for gum.
My lips become weapons, needles to poke
that which my fists demand access to
and hurt is all I understand in it’s subtle intricacies;
The wince of sharp pain, the dull ache of wide blows,
the simple humility of going down, the deep shame
of staying there.
RAGE FUCKING RAGE FUCKING RAGE;
energy like the sun dreams of as it dwarfs,
finally a nova, more than it ever was, or will be again,
that kind of rage boils from far below my feet
to the sweat beads on my forehead,
popping a steam locomotive through my head
leaving me only with regret and shame.