It Calls (Poem)

I feel it calling my name.

The madness that follows the bouts of shame

and the sadness that follows anger's flame.

It tells me who I am from what I was, 

watches me cry and try to forget its rage.

I try and cry to the Lord up above

to help me stand and kneel on my own to pray

to help me stay my hand, so that he may stay his.

All the while, my pleas feel as though they're in vain.

Its pain harshly feels like it was, will be, and is.

What do I say to it, when I feel it's embrace

hear it call out my moniker, threaten that for which I live?

I'll dream fantasies of goals met, fantasize heights found.

I'll cry to God with thanksgiving and shower the praise.

To the thing that calls me to rage, your bounds are not my bounds.

Fuck you. Fuck your Feelings. Fuck everything you say.