Don't Come Near Me.
A poem written in response to repressed internal aggression.
Fury electrified my body,
Making my senses sharper than ever.
But my arms didn’t move nor did my eyes stray away.
A fucking 64 was right in front of my face,
And its stance was immovable.
Dictating my intellectual capacity,
Ripping me off devoted hours,
Staring relentlessly at my face and
Mocking me with its reddish ink.
Anger heating as quick as alcohol stirred my heart.
But it was all for nothing!
The time, the writing, the cramming,
The coffee drinking, the intense studying, the screen-staring and
The lengthy office hours!
All for an exasperating sentiment of repugnant defeat.
“Henry, I got a 95. Damn! I shoulda had a 99 though.” Noel yelled.
If one of them comes next to me,
I swear, it would be a rain of blows upon his miserable head.
Stronger than Tyson’s punch,
Faster than light’s velocity.
Aiming right at his temple.
And I will keep punching,
Till I see that bright surrendering liquid ooze from his motherfuckin’ head.
And then my anger will vaporize into the wind.