I felt angry about someone. No. Not my wife. Just someone. They’ll remain anonymous. It’s not the best poem. Just a way of letting off steam and moving on.
Where do you come from? Where do you go?
Why do you say things, always gun-ho?
Why attack the messenger, trying to do his job?
Why do you eradicate him, by putting words in his gob?
Why are you full of insecurity? Do you think people can’t see it?
Why not evaluate yourself a little, and cast an eye on your own habits?
Do you like to bully the weak? Does it make you feel big?
Who is your tormenter, by the way? Do they stand over you like a tree to a twig?
Why do I keep asking you these questions? Are you smart enough to reply?
Send your answers on the back of a postcard, or even better, fuck off and say goodbye.