There is more gray in my mustache,
And while I may be angry, I deal
With anger differently these days.
With a little fight left in it,
But no more love poems —
Forever — if I can help it.
I’d rather be soulless
With a full head of hair
Than on this rollercoaster.
Not being given a chance
Is my miracle dispatched,
A lullaby from somewhere
Close then taken away.
The journey converged
And was cut in half with her hatchet;
That’s why this is an angry poem.
Sometimes we cause hurt,
Jump-boarded between the end
And the beginning, but I’d rather
Be angry than in love.