Sacred Rage

sacred rage

is that low animal sound in your chest

when something you love

is being stepped on.

it’s not evil,

nor primitive.

it’s your blood knocking,

your spine coiling awake,

saying—

no.

this matters.

that fire

rises quietly,

its precision honed in nerves,

a pulse that refuses betrayal

of what the heart holds.

heat climbs along the vertebrae

like a serpent,

alert, alive.

when we press it down

to nod, to fit,

we sever pieces of ourselves,

leaving the body light

but the soul hollow.

life is not a meadow

with incense smoke and soft affirmations.

holy books were written

where the earth was torn,

where hands shook

between fear and truth,

love and consequence.

stand.

even when trembling,

even when unsure.

let the body speak its refusal.

compassion in one hand,

steel in the other.

anything that tells you

to quiet your fire,

to appear “ascended,”

is selling sedation

in prettier packaging.

perfection is a wound

afraid to bleed.

spirituality is not

floating above the smoke,

while the world burns.

it is standing in it,

raw, messy, human,

letting truth burn,

letting shadow speak,

letting rage inform the heart.

there are forces

that prefer us silent,

docile, polite.

but the pulse knows—

anger is sometimes

the only sane reaction

to what is monstrous.

if truth rends the lie,

so be it.

those who cannot withstand it

were never built on solid foundation.

to be human is to rage,

to cry, to love, to die

to hold contradiction,

to carry weight,

let the fire be itself 

soft when softness heals.

relentless when truth demands.

god!

human.

love.

truth.

and do not bend.

by Tea Franca