Angry Poems

Whatever happened to angry poems?
Whatever happened to getting mad instead of sad
and lighting a fire beneath your own ass because
you're tired of all of the bullshit?
Whatever happened to righteous indignation?
Whatever happened to looking back on your ex and
shouting 'fuck that bitch' instead of chaining your heart down
with big stone blocks made of imaginary love.
She left you.
Get over it.
Whatever happened to telling off
that asshole that you work with because he thinks
he's better than you, and goes out of his way
to make sure that you know it with his stinking breath
and shit-eating grin.
Who threw out honesty?
Who buried the telling of unfortunate truths?
Why is it okay to be sullen and withdrawn
and hopeless and feeble?
Why is it okay to poison ourselves with
'could haves' and 'should haves'
when there's not a damn thing we can do
that will change the past?
Why in the hell do we still mope about?
Why do we leave this fire unstirred,
this potential untapped,
these words unwritten and songs unsung?
We do it because we're supposed to be afraid,
and the terrible truth is that most of us are.
We've lost our rage, our primal urge, our drive to
stand up straight, to kill, to curl our hands into fists
and punch at the world in all its vastness,
to hold down our problems
and snarl in their faces
'Fuck you, you weaklings!
Fuck you!'