maybe it’s a
primitive, dignified
anger of existence,
at the lack of it,
in this pocket of time which is not endless,
which will come to an end.
its shrill tone
a reminder to live,
saying this is not living.
but sometimes it just comes out as resentment
and looks for victims to accuse
instead of motivation
to do
better.
i’m only happy
when i’m sad
or maybe i’m only alive
when i’m feeling
and maybe the only feelings i know how to feel are sadness
and bittersweetness
isn’t that the central issue,
the one of feeling alive;
of eroticism?
maybe that’s why i’m so angry
when i’m not alive