Anger Poem by Martin Byrne

It splinters into me
Places I can't hack with an axe
Pieces of fragments of unkempt wood
Piercing and impregnating me, I am not dumb
I know it is there, yet I cannot pull the
Child from the womb yet
It stays and incubates with ferocious delight
Suckling on my hotter emotions and growing fat
Skin getting redder, splinter all the worse and untouchable
Still unspeakable

Follow it down the coarse road to a house
With a splinter in my hand
Knock on the not-so-wooden door, it can't do anything
No splinters, no understanding, the door is cold
Like a refrigerator locked tight
Like myself with a bologna heart aching to be handled

The door opens. It is the 2 by 4 from before

One: The amount of seconds that I spend looking at the woods
Two: The length of a side of the wood (this side splintered me)
Three: The amount of steps I take before I am near it
Four: The length of the other side... I don't care about it
Five: Stabs to the gut for the wood... blood spills
Six: Deep breaths before my murderous contemplation is upon me

The splinter lays on the floor near the body, docile and uncaring.
Fat after it's bloody birth, I cry. The splinter pseudopods
towards it's next victim. God what have I done?