At One With My Rage

Gazing at the soapbox I get no preferential treatment by promoters of consumption or the lady at the checkout counter
I marvel at my childishness despite the daily promises to be a more responsible creature of renown
My jacket needs some stitches, a buachaill stacking dishes as a young autistic girl brings a tear to her father's eye
This sense of not belonging breathes a need for isolation but I'm aware now of the bullshit fear can feed my fertile mind

The lady at the checkout fills me with rage
She asked me to speak up at this hour of the day
My first thought was to scatter things about the place
But I nod at put the biscuits back then leave before I wreck the gaff

At times I know I lose my way but that's alright we're all the same

I want to be at one with rage