A quiet rage, felt as each word bled upon the page. The keys succumbed, as she pounded out the passion of her emotions. The white page, dirtied with ink, poured from her veins; her fervor, a torrential flood. Each falsehood, each deception, released amid the black letters carried along behind the cursor. The innocence. Once, a clean view of the world, heaved up like a sick dog. That pure vision, flung carelessly aside. She wrote for the pain of it being torn from her. The keyboard let her scream and cry and curse. Ignoring the polite civilities of society. The filth her heart now consumed, left her feeling vile, empty and diseased. The words, an outlet, for the injustices of her past. Copyright (C) 2019 Penny Wilson
*The words “quiet rage” came to me and would not let go of me until I did something with them.