ANGER MAN
In the end it all comes down to chemistry, of the uncertainty of what happens when you put two things together and see what emerges. The beauty of distillation. And what do I do with the anger and resentment? I take the beating of my heart, the sensation of low oxygen, the pins-and-needles on my cold skin. Then I hold it over a fire until it nearly burns me and I pour it over the page to paint a picture of you. Suit man, with your checkered shirt, and the smile you bought in a convenience store. Economist with a critical eye in finding other people's flaws and pointing them out neatly (and blaming others for any he may have himself). Talks a lot but says very little, to hide he has truthfully very little to say. Agrees with everything you say, leaching, and then appropriating what was honestly somebody else's opinion. You are a hollow man, built from my anger, a symbol of mindlessness, the corporeal form of the concept I have fought so long in myself. And the echoes of your voice in my mind will die out soon enough, as will the anger, for who can truly carry hatred for an unreal man?