Angry people do angry things.
They throw papers off of the table,
Scatter dinner across the floor,
And refuse to brush their teeth,
Unconcerned by the consiquences.
The older one sings a song
Despite requests for quiet.
He repeats, louder each time,
Disrupting the ever-shrinking peace.
The small one cries.
Not the cry of the sad, but the cry of the angry.
Angry that he is small; angry that he cannot speak,
And his anger seethes out, staining the hopeful darkness of the night.
No one rests.
No one sleeps.
Everyone lives in the angry, vengeful rage.
And yet, we still dream of sleep...
Peaceful, restorative sleep.
Perhaps, one day, it will come,
As easily as the sunset,
As quiet as the moon.
Until then, we suffer,
Victims of our own choices.
Victims of the children we were born to love.