I Made My Body

I made my body an instrument of anger,

A vessel, a vector, a vehicle for vitriol,

Mobile and agile and five-quarters full.

Then the lights went out, and my knees went out,

and I don't need that anymore,

But I still hate with the same convicted convection.

I just lack a purposed, destructive direction,

So I just sit and boil on burners of rage

For the world, for my body, for being contained.