Inward pushing, outward pulsing,

bottled up, contained within,

unable to escape these feelings.

It chases me until the end

of my day and through the night.

In all my thoughts and in my dreams,

even sleep offers little respite.

Oh, how I wish I could scream!

It turns my limbs into themselves,

as if it yearns for a child’s pose,

and no soothing thought can quell

the barrage of hate that it arose.

The feelings gather at its impending release

and erupt into innate idiosyncrasy.

Temporary reprieve offers an allusion of peace.

But I am trapped, no one hears my plea

because it is me.