Sometimes, I Get So Infuriated Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

You know what I’d do
When I get these
Cold hands upon
A Polaroid?

I’d take little pictures
Of your little deaths
And embellish them
In poems so you’d
Have nothing to say
About yourself
And how decrepit,
Abused you are

Because this is how it
Works

I’ve not any desire
To join the majority
In this cold war
But let them have
The taste of their
Own disdainful antics.

You scathe me?
I will bury you until
You make no sound underneath
The Earth.

Let the people remember you,
Let them watch you
Crash like an aeroplane
Caressed by a rabid storm.

Let them exhaust themselves
As they catch every little
Frittering and fluttering piece
Of you

And the price is that
In this oblivion,
They will never remember you.
Just as much as
You did to me.

In this menagerie
Of wind-struck words,
Let me confess

At times,
I get so sick to the gut,
I get so mad to the bones
That I can hear them rattle
Inside my skin.

At times,
I get so infuriated that
When you put me in a place
Filled with people and
I, holding a rifle,

I’d be the headline
Right before your
Vapid eyes open
In search for the light.