freedom (?)

I. WRATH, they call me. More white flame than red rage. More slow fire burn than volcano eruption. II. Sometimes, I think I’ve faded. I am not a feeling. I am to be harnessed, reigned in and bottled up. I am a thousand stallions charging over the sea - wait, I stand corrected. I was. III. People clench their fists now and call the surge in them by my name. I laugh at them. I spit in their faces. I am not a passing moment. I am not a fist fight in an alley and a beer the next day. I am not people punching walls. IV. What’s to become of me? I think I’m starting to forget myself.

i don’t feel very human anymore.

Anger was better than tears, better than grief, better than guilt.

War is not heroic. War is not exhilarating. War is full of despair. It’s dark. It’s dreadful. It’s a thing of sorrow and gloom.

Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t build character. It only hurts.

There is so much anger in me fury ripping like cannons through tissue and bone and time it’s poison, I know it I can feel it dripping into my organs burning and killing with acid necrotic where do I put it so it won’t eat away everything I am from the inside out? I’m so afraid I’ll just erupt into flames the second someone lights a match to light the way

its not about whos got powers