I am a box filled with rage, I blow up at any given moment. I'm cold on the inside, when I burst I am as hot as a shooting star.

I hurt anybody in this process. Sometimes by accident, other times through sheer will. I don't have any control over myself. I'm always starting matches and evidently I feel the flames. I can't breathe without thinking about hurt.

Everytime I explode, people are amazed, surprised that something like me could ever react like this, some thing so cold would turn out to something so hot. I can't explain this feeling... When I am done with this exploding rage, I leave ashes, cold ashes of what was left inside me. I can't imagine how I could feel this. I can't bear to look at myself knowing I'm just a walking husk.

I am like fireworks, I blaze and and burn but I always end up being nothing but a pile of ashes.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed