by Jason M. Castle

Created on: August 15, 2009

Anger is my prison, my fortress, my solitude. Who can find me amid the waves of rage that beat against the tempest of my soul? The helpless cry of rage, that the life of the afflicted can change when of course it cannot. Here we sit with our blood spattered walls and our screaming echo of drug induced cat calls and nothing has made a difference. The lack of innocence has sealed our indifference no matter how fake it seems all of those gathered around in the halls of rage continue to posture about their own childhood pain.

No matter how many times I reflect on who I am can I see a way to the end of this madness, no one it seems wants to acheive the goal of the good works of life. It seems that all those who do the rules in and of themselves are the reward not the ultimate goal of a better life for all. What say we then? That those afflicted by the expression of this agony that is anger are without sorrow or remorse? That our course of VOLUME is not to be understood? Where have I stood on any of this but at the bottom looking up to greater minds then my own hoping for peace in my soul that I may sleep some day in that peace.

It is not so, for each new road I travel the rage is with me. It is not the people themselves but the memory of what should have been. Humans make there mistakes and I do not blame them, be they my father mother , sister brother. All are of the same even if they are not my own. Each of them having their own beast to tame. If this is true what use then is their of justice and blame? If all REAL pain is from the same kind of game?

I have lived and died a thousand times in this game, and still I loose at the very last frame. This film is not yet rated.

It's a wonder I am now thirty years old and I have never dated, what does that mean?

Still lost on my wave of rage and now slated to take the greatest stage, which character am I going to be in this horrible play?

And, I am still so pissed off. Why did this take so long? What if the rest of my life goes just as wrong as this first part. Oh, wait I garuntee that it will continue with the spill of blood into the age old mud. They die as soon as they come and yet their lives have son only one kind of son, the kind that runs and runs and runs. That's Africa for ya, still I wonder-does my selfish self have any boundries that I really care to die for? If so who cares anyway? If I die for myself and my boundries, I am the only one who cares, so I died for the pleasure of my own selfish pride, or nothing.

Yeah, drunken confusion-no more rage tonight please!

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