unhappiness so virile it becomes explosive,
a tangible substance clinging to hands and lips
and wiping its greasy presence onto everything i touch.
sadness isn't a cloud above my head,
anger isn't a chemical in my bloodstream;
these things are more divisive, more intrinsic than that,
more internal than external, genetically determined:
sadness in the color of my skin,
a predilection for anger as a disease.
it is only this day's scenario that presses itself
vehemently against my tongue,
predetermining diction, timbre, and tone.