Wait a While

There was grief,

there's always grief,

before the storm. Like some sort of deep internal brewing, the painful gasping of air before the breath turns hot with emotion.

First, the grief.

Of course, we already mentioned that.

Then we might part ways, like on a narrow bridge of sadness and in our temptation, turn back to the wider bridge of anger so as to flaunt about our lack of successions.

Fear that the anger will be met with no resistance turns up the volume, spreading out the hopeless rakes of unending wanton for the life just barely out of reach.

There's the person at fault,

the supervisor,

the supervisor above the supervisor,

and then their committee.

All deaf ears.

And so I turn, turn backs on them and go on up the latter. Further up to committees, then attorneys try to worm their way in and I'm not interested. No. I want my voice heard. I don't want money. I want what I came and paid for, what my people paid for and what they expected I would receive. A service, no, not lip service. Real fucking service. Not some crumb excuse that I failed on my end, we already know that. I know that, the records know that, and you damn well fucking know that the very same. Insipidus snake. Damn your fucking 'research' and systems alike! There's no accountability! Damn that all and that bullshit timeline you gave to me.

I am tired, roused up by my anger to overcome my sorrows and vulnerabilities and I demand countenance or lest my anger wave you from my way as I move on further.

No, no leeches will attach to me. No lawyers, no mob of angry citizens, no news casters or journalists. Just me, me and me alone so you can feel discomfort in my plight. So you can squirm and wriggle at the immensity of my contempt rather than feeling ample motive to discount my motives by some faceless mob so as to hide and victimize yourself. No. I am angry, very so, and in your face. Feel the intensity of my fire, burn within its wake.