Stewed

Stay away from my hair splitting anger as endorphins sear in beaded silent screams. I covet within to bare knuckles, tight, white, slamming into a haunting image that replicates the perfections of your face. Feel the bulldozer fist plow through walls of steel as if glass took its place transparently shattering from the impact. Self-satisfaction watchesshock waves ripple goose bumps that fall from your eyes as pain demolishes the tower you stance. Who said that irony was weak, bitter tasting when served as the main course? If seasoned and stewed, forced fed with care it has a robust savory of its own. Would you care for seconds? Copyright 2003 Tracey L. Hardie