i tasted blood but i didn't care,
i bit down harder on my tongue,
i kept the fire between my teeth
so that i could burn these pages instead.
turning rage into ink and words,
breaking down the red until the
smoke cleared enough that i could see
no past this feeling, but through it.
anger is more useful in blotches of ink
and papers crumpled by sweaty hands
than as a hot breath that dissipates into
nothing more than negative energy.
for on its own, negative energy
can't be turned to change.
hot breath can be used to move mountains
but you need pens to dig the foundation
and break boulders built by centuries.
so i set these pages on fire
instead of the air around me;
i know the inferno will erupt
but i have waited
and i am ready.
YOU ARE READING
Feminist Rage
PoetryA collection of poems about feminism, empowerment, and the power of change. (all poems are mine)