The Anger Tree

Written a few years ago, as I tried to make up a theme song for my 22nd birthday. This is what came from that endeavor.

I had thought to write a hymn for turning 22.  Something happy.  With imagery. 

But whaddya know?  None of the scribbles on my mental note pad turned out happy.

What lies down deep, at the very core, is anger.  Rooted, planted, seeding anger.

I have no desire to see the roots - the leaves are dark enough for me.

Great, dark, slick things, anger over class, over choices, over listlessness.

Throw in some creepers slithering, tendrils draping, bristles prickling . . .

One all-encompassing, surrounding, engulfing creature of frustration, futility.

My first inclination: buy or borrow flowers, trappings, banners and cover it.

Hide it.  Deny it light.  Make it pretty, presentable, displayable.  Forget it. 

Move on.

Now here’s the problem: groundless stories don’t hold up.  They’re fiction.  They’re built upon air, and then themselves.  And that makes for bad hymns.  Bad poetry, too.

I plan to keep my trite feet out of bad poetry. 

So, no rhyme scheme.  No meter.  I’m not good at those anyways.  What’s worse than a classicist that can’t scan?  Howza ‘bout a writer with no truth?

Truth:  the plant exists.

Truth: the plant is mine.

Truth: I am not me without it.

Flowers are nice, don’t get me wrong.  Intense centers with coronae of feathery petals.

Very pretty.

But they need to come from somewhere.  Roots needed to produce petals and all.

Besides, life is bare without anger.  And heck, mine is an anger that comes from love, anyways.

And love makes the best flowers. 

Just ask florists.