THE FURY

I suppose it's a compliment

you beat me so brutally.

I guess it's to my service

that you hate me so.

It's possible that only the one that you love

would make you so furious

to cause such violence

throwing me forward and tossing me fro.

Perhaps that I make you so angry

is reason enough to be glad

that I have such appeal

to build in you such a store of emotion

that it is an honor to cause you to feel

such rage

and such tension

such horrible hate

that your blood would be boiling at my very sight

that you still make the effort to profane my hate.

The line that is fine between that which you feel

and what I want you to is so fine that it's gone.

The passion you toss at me there with the iron

is enough to make me be blessed - though wrong.

I have to admit it is not what I'd wish

this negative enforcement that I build in you

is far south of perfect;

it's not what I wanted, but it will have to do.

Still I wish you control your anger

just manage the temper that bubbles and burns

and keep a firm hold of the fists that go flying

each time you accuse me of speaking out of turn.

I take what I can, and I take all your venom

as a sick sort of compliment; it's the best I can do.

For though it's unhappy that you beat me so often

it shows in your way, that you love me, too.

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