Kicking At The Walls Poem by Brian Rihlmann

He's a skinny teenage runt,
but the ferocity of his tirades
has frozen grown men
twice his size
in their tracks.

They'd stare at him
like a rabid raccoon
as he shouted
in their blood drained faces,
their feet nailed to the ground
just waiting
for it to be over.

He's still around,
kicking at the walls,
cursing and screaming,
trying to get in or out,
it's unclear which.

You can't give him
what he wants,
because the world
won't fit
in a box.

So I just sit,
and listen to him kick
until he tires himself out.
Some nights it goes on
for awhile.