Sad poetry has never sat quite right on my tongue;
Indignation has always squeezed too tightly around my chest,
Like a hand-me-down shirt that was not stretched
To the broad dimensions of my shoulders.
I do not easily fit into these feelings of fire and ire.
This anger, how it burns down my throat, like a wildfire,
And I cannot clutch my pen with flames scorching
Bones and muscles and nerves.
The smoke in my lungs choke every shred of who I am and
Who I could be and who I will be and who I want to be.
My passion has always glided rather than marched,
Trembled softly rather than quaked the earth.
But I guess thats the key to hand-me-downs:
They carry too much of someone else.
Like a sweater inherited from another body,
This anger too lays foreign on me.
But as I wear these hand-me-downs I can feel the
Sweater threads stretching and expanding,
The anger lightening and dispersing until
The fire has been extinguished and I can tremble on.