The Angry “Black man.”

The angry man is a madman.

He’s walking through streets of contempt,

eyes sharp, shoulders tense,

clutching fragments of a shattered mirror

that shows him nothing but a broken version of himself,

splinters of identity scattered,

pieces he can never quite put together.

He watches the pieces fall,

but still, he collects them,

hoping one day to build a whole he’ll never find.

*

He goes around seeking revenge—

not on others, but on the parts of him

that were stolen,

the parts that got lost in the noise of history,

stripped away by cold, invisible hands.

He seeks to be the white man,

the one who, quote-unquote,

made him this way,

made his name carry a weight

too heavy for his skin.

*

His anger is a language they refuse to understand.

But still, he speaks it,

louder and sharper,

with every step, every breath,

a voice that cracks like thunder in a storm that never passes.

But his words, they break on the air,

shattering into the pieces of his rage

that no one can piece together.

*

They call him mad,

dismiss him as a fool,

as if the madness comes from his mind,

and not from the space

he’s been forced to occupy in this world—

a world that never listens,

that never sees his truth,

only the shadow of what they fear.

*

He speaks loudly,

convincingly,

and in his voice, you can hear the sharp edges

of a man who is tired of silence.

A man who was never meant to be silent,

but had to be to survive,

who was made to swallow his pain

until it became a fire.

*

But still, they look past him,

look through him,

To the walls of his rage

and into the void of a history they can’t face.

*

They hear the anger,

but not the hurt beneath,

the hurt that weighs down his chest like a chain

wrapped tightly around his heart,

a thousand years of history,

a thousand years of silence,

and now, a thousand years of rage.

*

He wears his fury like armor—

even as the shame clings to him

like sweat on his brow,

a stain that will never wash away.

They say he’s crazy,

they say he’s lost,

but they don’t know what it’s like

to live in a world

where you have to shout just to be seen,

where every step you take

is a step into a story

written by hands that never belonged to you.

*

The angry man’s rage is a mirror,

and the world can’t stand to look at what’s reflected back.

They see the madness in him,

but it is their reflection,

their hatred, their fear,

projected onto his face,

and it distorts him,

It distorts them…

He is a mirror that shows them the ugliness

they refuse to face,

so they look away,

and they call him mad,

they call him dangerous,

they say he’s the problem-

That they can’t make sense of.

*

So he lashes out.

Throws his words like knives,

wounds they don’t even feel,

wounds that carve into him

deeper than the ones they left behind.

*

He tries to carve a space for himself,

but the world refuses to acknowledge

his existence.

He is seen as the madman,

the mad black man—

the one whose rage becomes his identity,

a label stitched into his skin,

a name given to him by those who

never bothered to understand.

*

But is it madness,

or is it the only way he knows how to survive

in a world that has done everything

to break him down?

*

The angry man keeps walking,

even as the world turns away,

as the weight of his rage

bends his spine,

and his voice cracks under the pressure

of being both unheard and misunderstood.

But he is still walking,

still breathing,

still fighting.

*

He looks at the world,

seeking a glimpse of something real,

but all he finds is reflection after reflection,

mirrors that show him a version of himself

he never wanted to be.

*

He tries to find himself in the cracks,

in the chaos of his anger,

but there’s no solace in rage,

only a fleeting sense of control

that slips from his hands the moment he grasps it.

*

He is the angry man,

but who made him this way?

And when will they listen?

*

But oh God, do I pray for his healing.

For the weight to lift,

for the fire to cool,

for the mirror to finally show him something whole.

For the rage to no longer be his only language,

for his name to no longer be written in fury.

For the world to see him, truly see him—

before the anger consumes him whole.

*

I am the angry black man.

And it’s high time i get my own happy ending,

and a loving home.