The face of anger... What a thing to think.
How can one describe such a terrible thing?
A face of rage by us can't be told,
As we are chained to words of old.
And even in new, less meaning is found
In all the words by which we're bound.
But try... I'll try...
The face changes for each who sees,
But the following is that of simple me.
The hair - soft, black as night -
Falls into eyes with curious light.
Deceptive they are, saying "All is well."
But in the dark iris burns fires of hell,
Of pain, betrayal, hatred of all;
Shows the heart of an angel who's had to fall.
Next, the skin: scarred and pale;
Like armor, cracked by verbal hail.
Down to the lips in perpetual frown,
Which only open to kick one down
With words that swarm inside one's mind
And make their way down deep inside.
But the face itself is alluring in looks,
Like the face of a fairytale prince from books.
It draws us back, like a drug, with a promise:
If we're angry, they leave and cannot hurt us.
But we push away so that we may feel
Joy, pleasure, happiness that's real.
So he lies in wait, like a lion, to see
When next he may take control of me.
The face of anger is alluring, but dark,
For that is where remains his broken heart.