I want not just to find the door,
but more, to tear this to the floor.
My feet would whisper "walk away,"
but fists and muscles want their way.
To leave could never be enough
to quench this rage that runs me rough
and ragged; I'd as soon employ
these fists that chant, "destroy, destroy."
The door may gape and roads may run
to shorelines peaceful in the sun
but I'll be busy with my hate
berserk against the world I've made.