I want to pour my anger into a poem.
I want it to drain from my scorched throat and flow down my arm, into my fingers, through my pen and onto the astonished page.
I want my anger to desert my body and become art, even if it leaves my fingers, my arm and my throat as cold as my heart already is.
If my anger became a poem, it would be the fiercest, hottest, largest, most vicious and powerful poem ever.
It would burn up and consume everyone who read it. It would take away all their hope, all their self-esteem, every pleasing memory and glad thought they ever had.
If they screwed it up and threw it in the bin, it would jump back out twice the size and twice as savage as before, wrap itself around them and suffocate them.
I want to pour my anger into a poem. But if I did that, the paper would incinerate, and my tears would come too late to extinguish it.