Midnight Tears

Red hot feeling

It's uncontrollable. The feeling, the red hot feeling. 
It makes you want to scream, but even screaming cannot ease this red hot feeling. 

When you were little it might have come when your mother told you it was time to leave the park, or took your favorite toy away. 
It came from innocent things. 
But it didn't matter, because your mother wold cradle you in her harms and whisper in your ear sweet things. Sweet, innocent things.
It was like her voice carried pure bliss, and you never wanted to let go. 

But life rips you from her arms and throws you in a desk for twelve years. It tells you to shut up and listen. Only other people know what is best for you, never act on your own desires. Live the life people want you to live. Stand up for yourself, but keep your mouth shut or they'll label you as another teenage rebel, another loud mouth, another explosive waiting to be set off.
They take this as a challenge. So they will do anything to set you off and you are taught to sit and take it. That when an adult mistreats you you are to smile and give them respect.

Don't even think about not going to college. If you don't you're considered lazy. You just don't want to deal with the money, the books, the tests, the studying, the stress, the existential dread, the depression, the insomnia, the red hot feeling.
The red hot feeling that once came from innocent things now comes from mountains of grown up problems. 
You like to think that your younger self would think of them as big scary monsters that only appeared in your dreams. The ones your mother would protect you from by siting at your bed until you fell asleep. 
Bliss.

You have no say in what this red hot feeling makes you do. Your body goes numb, and you think with the red hot feeling instead of your mind. You scream. And though it doesn't do anything you just have to do it. Until eventually you throw things, and pull on your hair so hard your head bleeds. You grit your teeth until they chip, and you dig your nails into your skin and scratch until your skin is raw and peeling. You bite yourself so hard that you break skin and the marks last for days. 

And when people ask what made you do it you say,

"anger."

(A/N): I wrote this poem because one, I was angry, and two, I feel that people with anger problems don't get taken as seriously as people with other mental disorders do. Anger disorders can be dangerous. You can cause harm to yourself or others. And they should be treated as seriously as any other disorder. I don't see people say this a lot, but if you have an anger disorder, seek help. You are not alone. There are many people who care about you and are willing to help you. Please, stay strong. You are valid.