Colin F. Jones


What is this anger that wells up in me,
Where from does such irritation come,
That I do sink on bended knee,
Distraught when it is over and done.
Why do I rant and rave like this,
That those I love are deeply wound,
Where is the man oh I so miss,
Who seems to be in Hell marooned.
Despair doth in my fool’s heart grow,
As I do whither with the stress,
And those I hurt will never know,
That I do try my very best,
But all that comes from good intent,
Are the angry words I foully vent.