Rage and I are friends.
I use him to defend.
He protects my heart,
and other soft parts.
Rage and I are friends.

Rage refuses his cage.
I put food inside
and painted it red,
but he won’t get in,
unless he’s dead.
Rage refuses his cage.

Rage and I are one.
Though we never have any fun.
He makes me feel bad,
sullen and sad,
Rage and I are one.

Rage and I are too much.
we’re extra, dramatic and such.
When he takes the lead,
I’m no longer me.
Rage and I are too much.

Rage and I are cohorts.
He gives me my fire,
my passion, my sire.
Rage and I are cohorts.

Once or twice Rage has left.
It’s then, I travel to those depths—
of sadness and pain,
depression, distain.
I’m lost when dear Rage has left.

Rage and I are friends.
And if I never saw him again—
I may be more likable,
more calm or more zen…
But sadness would eat me alive.
I’d deflate, unable to thrive.
So Rage and I stay friends.