PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There’s chow littered on the staircase floor.

I scramble to clean up the spill before it’s all consumed

By the cat that brought the family bad luck since the late spring.

Here I go, like I always do,

Holding my tongue on the job

While I hear you shout

While I hear you try to crush me

While I hear you goad me to scream.

It confuses me why an act of kindness and good intentions

Can wrought so much volatile sentiments.

I’ve been hesitant to feed the little one because I don’t know his tastes.

Never did I anticipate that her gluttonous habits are what triggers you.

Or is it he? Wow. Just wow.

Anger does wonders to the hippocampus.

My curiosity about how long you’ll live after that squabble fascinates me

But it concerns me at the same time.

Mad people live shorter lives than those that can stay calm when there’s an inconvenience.

To you, I’ve always been the stupid little boy you’ve been raising since thirty-two.

To me, you’ve always been the hot-headed scumbag that loves pushing my buttons.

And your temper is my poison.

Just today, while hitting the road, I thought we’d find common ground.

Keeping our cools while the mama cat is away

And a kitten comes out to play

Before it helps us seek four crystals in need of recovering.

When all that is done, I thought we’d go out for

Bagels and quiche for old time’s sake.

I enjoy the little interactions and activities when your temper is below zero.

Sadly, tonight once again broke the streak

That counted consecutive days we got along.

This always happens growing up, yet I never see it coming.

To you, I’ve always been the stupid little boy you’ve been raising since thirty-two.

To me, you’ve always been the hot-headed scumbag that loves pushing my buttons.

And your temper is my poison.

If you think the black cat is getting pudgy,

Why don’t you take a look in the mirror?

You’ve put on more pounds than she did.

Or he did? How did you get the genders mixed up in the heat?

I guess anger does wonders to the hippocampus.

You’re the reason why I have to keep my temper in check.

And why I prefer tears over beers.

All for the sake of my own well-being so I don’t turn out exactly like you.

Your temper is my poison and I won’t let it fester.

The only antidote to my ailment is knowing that I’ll be out of this roof

Happier than I was living under it just like I was for the past two years.

I know that as a guppy, Mother said to be considerate of you and

I was told that deep inside, you do care.

Sadly, it’s excruciatingly difficult for me not to judge this book by its cover.

I just can’t pry it open to see the pages no matter how hard I try to interpret your rage.

But if this little message hurts your feelings,

It’s a dish served hotter than the volcano in the back of your head.

To you, I’ve always been the stupid little boy you’ve been raising since thirty-two.

To me, you’ve always been the hot-headed scumbag that loves pushing my buttons.

And your temper is my poison. It will always be my poison no matter how old we get.

"So hot headed,

but heavy is the hand

that is kept from raising.

Which,

being how soft

the surface below 

it would fall upon,

it is al and well

no hand was raised,

indeed,

but there is no praise 

for such common sense.

Uncommon men

and situations

make for comics 

and comical accusations,

life's a joke

so sometimes I laugh at it,

but this time around

I keep frowning.

So here it is,

laid on the table

the meal made,

with much forethought.

And in the end,

all it causes is heat,

feet stomping,

no use for a cooler,

all around fire is sprayed

and it keeps trying

to catch, 

skin not lit.

Whatever the reason,

be it power or to tower above,

stepping in increases rage,

decreases range.

Within striking distance,

add more fuel to the fire

burning deep inside,

taught to never lay a finger

on the fairer sex,

but the moment tests all control,

reveal, resist,

total consequence in the rearview.

SLew of words,

which hold meaning

spoken out of love or anger,

babble dipping into ears

is all tuned out;

been inside my head for hours

already.

So you go,

but not before raising your own hand,

no pain felt with the blow,

no weight to it.

But damned if the point isn't realized,

asked to leave 

only to come once I'm gone,

leaving my abode vandalized.

How dissapointing.

An anger so roasting

kept cool with a conversation

with a friend, 

longboarder, car hoarder,

keeps one in check

before diving into a bitter 

back-and-forth.

The bitter look

thrown with an intense glare

with one more pass,

feeling sick to the stomach,

but if one wants,

just ask.

I can be more specific.

Penurious of kindness,

parsimonious of respect."

...

wiping clouded window panes

to get a glimpse

of your back turned,

pounding down the walkway,

wanting you to turn around

and just once, see me.

~

the warmth of the fireplace

not near enough,

an aroma

of two frozen hearts, 

their juice drizzled upon fine china

with years of tears from a glacier of frustration.

~

I meant to 

let you know how lost you were 

in the fury of this blizzard

our melted souls,

racing fervently upon black ice

In bedroom slippers.

~

and now

you're on your way 

to break both of our necks,

the salt stains on wet cement

gripping angry footsteps

that do not know their own strength.

...