junkyard poetry

I am so weak, I can't stand on my own,
when the rage quiets down
my legs just can't walk anymore.
I am the cripple
in all your Sunday stories.
You are the merciful sister,
blessed with the virtuous of a saint

But in my dysfunctional mind
the bitterness grows
and I wait, for the rage
to fill me with strength;
to crash and burn,
one more time
to make it through
just one more night.