A wave inside says
punch
maybe even stab
so often that
each fresh anger’s become
just another cobweb
to brush aside
They’re piling up into
quite a gray heap
in a corner
You recall hearing
that if applied swiftly
they can clot a wound
You start looking
for a wound to stanch
Finding none
you make one
and toss your rage onto it
like a dirty blanket
Your last thought is
that you must be
doing it wrong
Dark Matter 
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