Anger’s eyes are in its fists

Anger is like a blind tour guide walking you through the town you were born in.
No eye for sights you see. Teaching you only what you never noticed before.
All the steps in between.

Anger’s eyes are in its fingertips.
Anger’s blind curled firsts can’t resist feeling up stranger’s faces.
Showing you places it has never seen.
Taking you down roads to where you’ve always been.
Tapping sidewalks like a telegraph with a long scrape
and a short knock and another long scrape.
That is how anger asks for help.
With a stick and a fist.

Whispering how if you say the word what it will spell hell
in brale across the side of your face. Behind sunglasses.
Shade shaded eyes from stranger’s pries and useless light.
Blind. But still out looking for a fight.
A tour guide for your own home who keeps falling down
and demanding why didn’t you say there was a curb.
Rising to darkness in a world where suns never climb.
Eyes only cry. And the world is just that place below the sky.
And anyone who gets in anger’s way will learn to step aside.
Because any one of them can see, anger is blinding.

Using someone else’s affliction to play out a lame analogy.
And if a blind person gets angry at me for writing this, fine.
It will be worth it to see, so perfectly, the blind lead the blind.

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