pissed off

poetry

my fists are my sanctuary today

i throw them at:

the chinese clouds
raining their water-torcher

my box
and pet roaches and in
animate objects

cans of pop
indefinitely tipping

my own hands
knocking things
over and off

my eyes for their
tricks

every thing that
does not bend to
them gets broken
by my fists today

(i try so hard on every
other day but today)

and i hide in them
genuinely wanting to be
left alone from even
myself.