Poems - Seven Deadly Sins - Ira (Wrath)
Spill my wrath
Upon this page
Like ink it stains
All things with rage
A poets heart
Should be pure
To enable such an art
But my pen
Often hesitates
In anguish
Struggled
Strangulated speech
My words
They twist and writhe
Upon the page
To speak of those
In no disguise
Who have caused me such pain
Be still my pen
Tool of a humble art
For with each word
You wrench the truth
Hidden in this heart
Fury, I suffer thee no
Denial
For a monster feeds on me
Laughing all the
While
Frustration here
To rip this page apart
For he will not hear
The words I write
Seperate me not
From pen and paper
Censored though
For anger cannot be
All the words I wish to say
Between you and me
This poem fails to satisfy
Incites ira evermore
If I could only slip
The real poem
Of 'anger'
Underneath his door.
Upon this page
Like ink it stains
All things with rage
A poets heart
Should be pure
To enable such an art
But my pen
Often hesitates
In anguish
Struggled
Strangulated speech
My words
They twist and writhe
Upon the page
To speak of those
In no disguise
Who have caused me such pain
Be still my pen
Tool of a humble art
For with each word
You wrench the truth
Hidden in this heart
Fury, I suffer thee no
Denial
For a monster feeds on me
Laughing all the
While
Frustration here
To rip this page apart
For he will not hear
The words I write
Seperate me not
From pen and paper
Censored though
For anger cannot be
All the words I wish to say
Between you and me
This poem fails to satisfy
Incites ira evermore
If I could only slip
The real poem
Of 'anger'
Underneath his door.
By Hilary Wheaton
posted by fluffylittlebunny @ 1:38 PM
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