My Anger

The other morning I woke up feeling angry at the world. I walked around the yard cussing out the pets that were making growing an herb garden akin to climbing a mountain, and the strong sun that has burned what's growing even though I water every day; I kicked the leaky tire on one of the cars; slammed the hard to close gate shut and climbed back into bed to stare at the ceiling. It was a self-absorbed moment, almost as luxurious as it was upsetting. I realized as time went by that I was angry at myself.

I haven't been writing as much of late, not even very many opinion pieces- and those usually flow right off my fingertips as I type. I blame it on the household chaos but I think it was plain old writer's block. So for a couple of days I toyed with the penning of a short poem about my anger. Finally I tried. All I could come up with is this little trilogy of haiku, but it describes my feeling pretty well. To be honest my quilts aren't scratchy at all but it was the best I could do to describe the tossing that came before waking.

My Anger

I'm angry mostly
for putting important things
high up on the shelf

Anger wakes me up
seething into the morning
arms thrown to the sky

A scratchy cover
of anger filled twisted quilts
lay left on the bed


I'm told that anger is a normal feeling especially during a health crisis, but anger at myself is new to me, it's something I usually push far away.

A few days after that episode I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. It wouldn't go away until I cried. I'm not big on crying but I admit it feels good in a way.