I don't know why I feel this anger,
Un-passionate and bleak, it fails its purpose.
No riveting narrative in its bosom it holds,
No sorrow it exudes no reason it proclaims- this melancholy ire.

Not unfettered and wild, just ....dead defeated and mild
It fails to evoke even my own sympathy -this accursed barren excuse of an anger
It has no substance - no character befitting its traditional stature- it falls flat under the weight of its expectations
Just overbearing emptiness-and affair of contemptuous, pitiful despair.

I fail to understand it,
and this furthers feeds my disgust -my inability to comprehend,
Feeds my disgust over defeat at the hands of this unworthy opponent

It is usually I who cage my anger.
Keep her under lock and bolt.
For fear over what she may unleash if left unchained.
Now karma has come back to bite me
And I do not take lightly
To this reversal of roles- it feels my hand is forced
and my anger has caged me inside me.