My Anger And Me

I thought my anger was my protection,
a magical weapon, sometimes shield, sometimes sword,
keeping me safe.

I used my anger with passionate skill,
bravely defending myself, righteously confronting wrongs,
building my strength.

With my anger sheathed at my hip
I could stride through the places I hated being,
yielding to no one.

I know my anger came to own me
a habit become a hunger, sometimes my scourge, sometimes my cage,
draining me of joy.

My anger used me to blast and burn,
a spur in my flesh, triggering jolts of rage,
feeding my hate.

With my anger fused to me
I found more to hate and more to hurt
and loved not even myself.

I want my anger to be cut away
a surgery worth the pain and post-operative scars
if it sets me free.

I refuse to be my anger,
son of fear, brother to pride,
a family I disown.

With my anger gone
I will be hollowed out, weak and vulnerable
to a world I hope will be kind.