With a purpose

He, drags himself out of bed limping with invisible wounds to the reflective bathroom so that he can stare at his creased, worried face, as he brushes his teeth
He is planning on tackling mother nature into submission for mere selfish gain. not at all logical, but makes sense to the un-sense-able.
Who ever called him sensible in the first place?
He is relying on emotional impulse and absolute stupidity, for the permanent time being
He, feels as if the world is going on without him, moving and shaking to the airy sound waves
He fights through this cold-weathered rain cloud that is perpetually placed overhead, dampening his spirited conviction
He is instead verbally abusing the universe out of sheer anger, accomplishing nothing in the moment but feeling so much better.
knowing that karma will pay her visit, dumping her brown, battered suitcase on his front porch. appearing as a frizzy-haired, long-nailed villainous woman seeking her vengeance for his premature behavior against the larger forces.
He is allowing the fierce winds to shake the tree branches, howling after his green, rubber-soled tennis shoes leaving odd-numbered imprints on the concrete
He is disobeying stop signs, ignoring pedestrian traffic, and restaurant etiquette for the hell of it.
He is immune to the angry shouting, the smoked car-crashes, the yelling accompanied with four-letter words and abusive curses
because anger is easier to brush off than disappointment, always is.
He is rebelling against anything and everything to prove indifference to stop feeling, to halt this full-on, collision-inducing throttle of sorrow that keeps lurching in his direction