More praises need to sung for the angry woman,
the woman with bile and vitriol rising in her throat,
flushed flesh and words spat out like
watermelon seeds in the summertime.
Women who speak swords and breathe brimstone.
She bleeds but not does not wane,
but waxes, growing, encroaching, she breaths in and
More praises need to be sung for the angry woman,
who wields her fury like a beautiful weapon,
whether ice or fire runs in her veins,
the light in her eyes speaks of endings.
I sing praises for the angry woman,
who dares to raise her voice, with the fingers of the world,
wrapped neatly around her throat.