Our Fire Inside

A man’s anger is a quiet storm,
A fire that burns but keeps its form.
It smolders deep, it rages bright,
Yet often hides from open sight.

He clenches fists, he bites his tongue,
Swallows words that stay unsung.
He walks it off, he counts to ten,
Because the world expects it then.

Some drown it deep in sweat and steel,
Let iron bend to what they feel.
Some take to roads, just speed and wind,
Chasing peace they’ll never find.

Some pour it out in whiskey’s burn,
Hoping rage won’t soon return.
Others sit in silent thought,
Fighting battles never fought.

For anger, left to twist and grow,
Becomes a weight too hard to throw.
Yet faced with hands that heal, not harm,
It turns to strength, a tempered charm.

A man’s anger is not his end,
But how he bends, how he defends.
For fire, though fierce, can light the way,
If not let loose, but held at bay.