eating anger

In a bout of perceived
sophistication, I
attempted to write a moment,
to be that capsule of bitter rage
bursting like a stiff strewn water balloon:
wreaking water, havoc and
writing a fiasco.

But there were no letters that
would come to my service,
they demanded too much of me:
loyalty
a hefty wage I could not afford.

Here I remain simple,
only eating words that are blurred
and that draw little effort from my
cookie heart,
from my limber limbs, like
sunshine and greener grass and
happy faced houses
with beautiful garden beds.

I will live here,
a witch in her own tender cookie house,
children nibbling at my edges
until they are full
and the disparate crumbs of me are eaten
by scavenging seagulls