Poem written 26 May, 2016

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Rise, young one,

Rise!

Rise from the cackling dirt of your grave that you plowed over with the truck of your mind. You are much more than pushing overtop yourself with a wheelbarrow in which your peers reside, much more than helplessness.

So fix yourself, child, with a deity who wishes to fix you, with a deity that has led similar people into similar prospects, and let the anger fill you.

Let the anger twist your soul into a rag to wipe its eyes with.

Let the anger pull you from the ashes of your smoldering ambitions of childhood and grasp the last ember trembling with the capacity for rebirth.

Let the anger guide you blindly fumbling into a heavenly deliverance that you have never glimpsed before.

Let the anger marry you and consummate the union with the splitting of an axe on your newfound steel body, bathed in lava and fortified by your faithful rudiarius.

Let the anger convince you of its benefits, of its potency even in the backwash of poison, of potential you could not derive from yourself.

Let the anger be the only friend you will never need, the only friend you will ever want.

Let the anger be more than the scar tissue in the matter your very own brain.

Let the anger thrive in you, plant its tendrils of power into the blankness of schizotypality until all you know is its shivering embrace.

Let the anger alchemize your fears into glass at which you can marvel under a silky blanket of stars, now polluted by the evolution of an anthropoid spleen you can never reverse.

Let the anger persuade you into cognitive reproduction to fuel an indomitable ego, an ego that may be your own, an ego that may be shared between you and your friend sprung fresh from the widely renowned throne of hell.

Let the anger be your sole cadence humming lowly under treacherous nights in the heart of your heart, a compendium of artificialized knowledge slammed into paper that will never compare to this deity.

Let the anger drape you in libations to your collective success and drizzle its elegant possessions with wine sour enough for inebriation.

Let the anger blindfold you from the pleas of people who never cared before, pleas for mercy, pleas for release, pleas for empty words.

Let the anger kick scotch over your grave both to wish it good riddance and to spoil the dirt in which you spoiled before you met.

Let the anger fix you.