Because my rage is a single parent
Not welcomed into social gatherings nor into mothers kitchen,
It melts unsold  birthday candles to sweet words everyone loves to listen to.
Because my rage is a vehicle sure to break down in the middle of a traffic, but can't afford to do so,
It gives angry horns as yellow clay butterflies try to sunbath in the dewy light.
Because my rage is an auctioneer with a parched throat, desperately wanting a sip of water amongst ridiculous bids, it smiles at you with glorious insanity and keep the mouth closed.
Because my rage is a cold star residing in the cave of swimmers, with a life jacket torn and muddy, it makes matching necklaces for the hands of shadows  that danced on the funeral match of a young poet.
Because my rage is a sixth sense dialect questioning the impatient song of a bird, 
it let you mistranslate it rather than giving an explanation no one asked for.
Because my rage is a hotel drenching in the roaring monsoons where paper boats are not welcomed, it shields your little umbrella on the lobby which talks how disgusting the floor is.
Because my rage is a morse code only I can read which makes me call it too personal, it revolves around me like a child in blue skirt playing tug of war alone.
Because my rage is a kind butcher who allows me to select the knife, I look at it with love, for all the small mercies it offer.

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