The Destructive Anger..

It is beyond the control of the senses, When it starts to brew as the liquor, Quite addictive and impulsive in gesture, Gushing through the holes of the aperture, Control is not the right sutures and a amateur, When the wind picks up the heat from the ears, The eyes are open wide, sometimes drawn down, Breathing heavily as the panting brutes, Breaking the things which are near, and in the hearts of own and dears, Men are at his worst pose: the tongues twist, As the whip lased with hemlock, After slashing all those kind sprouts, Those have been cared for days and years, When the pressured is released, And return to normal, The cracks are found in every mind, Those withstand the blows, from the fierce invisible hands.