I have always felt it is difficult for me to get angry, so much so that I often feel physically overwhelmed in the presence of confrontation. And some may find it amusing that they have seen that part of me which is cynical and unhappy about how unfair and unjust the world treats each other. I had such conversations at times with friends , and today when I had another I felt it would rather be unfair if I specifically chose this; to be a topic I refused to write about. Though I fear I tend to apologize too quickly, though I fear my innate need for what I call being nice may be rooted into a grander acceptance of the world I live in, it is far from being right. I guess for now it is the only version I know about, and though I make no promises to the world or to you my friend(s) , I can only write to this mad and angry world we each try to make sense of every single day. I don't know what I achieve in writing this piece, but it is nevertheless the idea that we can be fair, and honest to ourselves.
An Angry World
And yes the world was angry, heated up, rattled like a room with no escape,
A windows that lead you to believe what was real, with bars inside and out it was built like a cage
Angry upon the minutes of the day that means so little to few and so much to you,
Angry with favors that are called upon and about returns which come so very few
An angry world often sits and plans, it does nothing much but keeps memories of the past,
It reminds itself, it hurts itself and often tells itself of the stories that for no reason last
Angry upon the complains we never made, the things we didn't get to say as arguments end,
And the incomplete phone calls with conversations still, and the letters we write; but never send.
I feel anger mixed with passion at times, about situations that I wish I could change at will,
Which were carried on from time to time, and yet would listen to no one and would not yield
Are you angry with me, the world or is the wait too long?
I have reasons, as do you, and for now the world is mad trying to get along
And in the end when all is calm for a while, when the tea cups and coffee cups are stowed away,
You will remember both the angry times, and maybe the times you could smile the ones you share
Yes I might be angry with the world, or simply gloomy, upset or too tired to complain,
But it is what is left of utter disbelief, waiting for things to be equal is it all in vain?
Go angry when you can into this world, the little kid is beaten down too often at times,
And even the maddening crowd, the cynics and the hopeful ones refuse to stir any part of mine
An Angry World
And yes the world was angry, heated up, rattled like a room with no escape,
A windows that lead you to believe what was real, with bars inside and out it was built like a cage
Angry upon the minutes of the day that means so little to few and so much to you,
Angry with favors that are called upon and about returns which come so very few
An angry world often sits and plans, it does nothing much but keeps memories of the past,
It reminds itself, it hurts itself and often tells itself of the stories that for no reason last
Angry upon the complains we never made, the things we didn't get to say as arguments end,
And the incomplete phone calls with conversations still, and the letters we write; but never send.
I feel anger mixed with passion at times, about situations that I wish I could change at will,
Which were carried on from time to time, and yet would listen to no one and would not yield
Are you angry with me, the world or is the wait too long?
I have reasons, as do you, and for now the world is mad trying to get along
And in the end when all is calm for a while, when the tea cups and coffee cups are stowed away,
You will remember both the angry times, and maybe the times you could smile the ones you share
Yes I might be angry with the world, or simply gloomy, upset or too tired to complain,
But it is what is left of utter disbelief, waiting for things to be equal is it all in vain?
Go angry when you can into this world, the little kid is beaten down too often at times,
And even the maddening crowd, the cynics and the hopeful ones refuse to stir any part of mine
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