random

rage

nothing is left, but the rage once felt. The effort from two sleep deprived people as one is trying to break though to the other what they want. It simply started with wrong wording, and then continued, boiling, bubbling up to the surface till it dripped all over the table, leaving the fumes of rage. The yelling, the leaving for the sanity. The sorrow as one sits lonely and broke, rage left in the mind, wanting to just sit and stay there, the violin plays to soothe, but nothing can save as the rage still boils. It was all the other's fault, not wanting to see the sides, but yet this is what happens, with the rage left, and no one to direct it at, it wanders, through the floor as the wet balls drip and soothe the rage through more wet rage. It is such that no one is safe, no one from the logic that makes no sense, the idea that nothing is left but the empty case as the soul leaves to run into the dark, unable to return, for the rage lives. The rage, the rage, it is but what happens to the fumes, but it is here to stay, till nothing is left in the brain but that and the tiredness that is the cause.