The Noise is a constant, grinding hum, A headline cruelty, where division is won. I write this from the hollow of my chest, Where anger, cold and heavy, takes its rest, A fierce, deep weight that makes the breath feel thin, At all the suffering this harsh world takes in. It is no temper, swift and soon dismissed, But a burning ache for the promise missed. A rage against the slick, systemic gears That grind the good beneath a thousand fears. Against the endless, hungry maw of greed, And the deaf indifference to desperate need. They whisper, "Be still," "Find a placid shore," But calm is silence when the wounded roar. My anger is the proof that I still care, A refusal to breathe easy in despair. It keeps the spirit sharp, the vision clear, A compass pointing past the things I fear. So let this fire burn within the bone, A vital heat, a seed that has been sown. It shows me what is fractured, what is wrong, But proves my hope remains intensely strong. The world is harsh, yes, but the fire is mine— And while I hold this flame, I cannot resign.