Identity crisis of an infantile rage

The rage that outpours me,

Doesn't have a name

I could've locked it in a casket, had I known its identity

I could've chained it in hell, had I known its shadows

The rage that outpours me

Doesn't have a name, doesn't have an identity

Doesn't have a shadow, nor sensibility

I would stare into the mirror and it would smile back

I would walk around in the park at 7 pm

And it would follow,

A friend or a foe, misfit or a follower--

It remains loyal as the enemies of the state.

My rage consumes me,

Until there no longer leaves a boundary

Undifferentiable, unidentifiable.

A Frankenstein construct,

Grief and rage, perfectly residing in quite harmony.

-R