Sizzling rage burns in my fingertips
Heats the curve of my nails as a flame, a firelight caged in glass,
A black fountain pen in hand, a darkness overcoming my head.
Trembling, shaking, enraged,
I begin to create.

The fire bursts from the end of my pen lid like a tarnished flower,
Feelers consumed in dark black smoke,
Stork chopped away by the furious blast
Of my anger, my ink, my art.

Eyes flash scarlet as I form my mind, my agony;
They unmask the rage no one will see,
They scream the words no one will hear,
As I engulf the rough white card as though enflamed:
They rage, they rage, they rage.

As the crimson sky tones to a blue horizon,
I mellow and wilt and bask in my calm;
But for my secret, my pain;
Rattling in the tiny, chipped desk
That traps me in my cage:
The pain of my rage.