My Anger

I’ve got my anger; it feels like the only thing that’s left of me now
I love my anger: the taste of metal in my mouth
Trying to sort these feelings out
I’ve got my anger; I keep it close to me, protecting me
I need my anger: the boiling blood runs through my veins
Keeps me sane
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, barbed, barbed is how I feel
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, barbed reminds me who I am
Who I am…
That’s not a dog howling, that’s someone pretending to be a dog howling down
the bottom of Preston Street.
October wasps, September days, walking through the morning haze after a short
summer.
You always looked at the ground; I always looked at the sky, uncomfortable in
your own skin and never any good with authority
Remember to feed the right wolf — don’t feed the bad wolf
I’ve got my anger; it feels like the only thing that’s left of me now
I love my anger: the taste of metal in my mouth
Trying to sort these feelings out
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, barbed, barbed is how I feel
Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, barbed reminds me who I am
Who I am…
It feels like everyone else is in a club that you’re not a member of —
detective Shirley Lee
Sometimes we’re fine for a while, but it all comes back: darker horses,
sixteen lights, and while we were worrying about something trivial,
something really bad happened
Impending doom, always a sense of impending doom
Lying there watching the lights move across the ceiling as the cars drive by
outside
And nobody seems to have noticed all the magpies gathering in the fields
Remember to feed the right wolf — don’t feed the bad wolf