Angel's Rage
written by Charity


He calls me Angel.
The oxymoron lingers
with the presence of my history
of social indignities.
Angel.
What the hell?
My walls of indifference
cling to me tighter.
A misleading intelligence
torments my head.
Was always the best,
but my lover must speak
belittling me so.
To put me in the place,
to place me in a place
I should have been long ago.
Diagnosis of a non-existing disease
to treat the normal
because they are normal.
What am I?
There is no doubt,
no chance of understanding,
And he says he's a man.
Only a man with his hands.
The discarded boxes
on a street, in a city
simple trashcans of those
who think they know god.

He called me angel again.
I wanted to die.
Of what?
Wasn't it what I asked for?
They always give you what you ask for,
on a dirty couch,
under the bridge...
Yeah, it's always been that way.
Can't make me.
Can't make me.
I rage against the dying of the night.
Rage against my mind.
Pull my skin away to make me clean.
Psycho.
Labeled, exploited...
They give you what you ask for.
Can't expect the understanding to understand.
Taking, taking...
Where is he now?
That man who took the little girl
with the world in her hands.

He calls me Angel.
Somehow it fits,
makes sense
to a girl who can't understand.


Back To Bare Bones