It starts as a whisper beneath the skin,
A throb in the temple, a fire within—
No warning bell, no calm prelude,
Just a storm in the blood, sharp and crude.
The breath grows short, the vision tight,
The world turns red, no wrong feels right.
Fists curl like roots in hardened ground,
And silence shatters without a sound.
No poetry here, no gentle word,
Just broken thoughts that won’t be heard.
Like thunder cracking open bone,
A voice that no one dares to own.
You told me “wait,” you said “be kind,”
While rage kept chewing through my mind.
You built the dam, ignored the leak—
Now watch the flood you said was weak.
This is not fury dressed in grace,
It’s primal, raw, stripped of its face.
No justice wrapped in clever lines—
Just centuries pressed into spines.
And now it spills—no cage, no leash,
No calm to bribe, no lie to preach.
Boiling anger, wide and wild,
The scream of every silenced child.
You want control? It’s far too late.
This is the sound of shattered fate.
So stand back now—don’t beg, don’t plead—
This rage was born because of need.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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