A Furious Day

Beads of sweat trickles down my head I feel as hot as lava spews out of me like a mighty volcano, Covers me with black that is blacker than colored black ash, Still the redness of my face bleeds through this and much more Fully combustible fumes about to explode within From what is contained and what is expelled, Is not pleasant to onlookers, nor myself. I think, plan, and plot, But, who is the best of plotters? Looking for a target to unleash my fury, Aiming in and out and feeling wretched I pull the strings of a ball of yarn, Yanking it like hair on someone’s head, Unravels and completely falls dead. How dreadful it is to be red as a cherry tomato, Or green as a monster with a green eye as the color of ivy Tightly wound, trapped within and confined, In a room, solitary, quiet, and silent Devoid of any interaction Of humans, insects, and animals Just air, breathing, in and out, I go against the flow, Not with it, but against it I sit down and lament