I was reminded of anger. The kind I used to carry around in my gut all day every day all night every night. And I hate who reminded me. Now it sits there. And I want it gone. It's funny how you feel guilty about these things. When violence in the house, I refuse it to be natural. When excuses are made, I refuse to acknowledge. So I am called unforgiving. So I am called young. But courage isn't violence. It's a free house, a free belief, unconscious poetry. My restless search for a home, still believing there is one. A pulling out of the fire, then some vision of the future.