I like being angry.
I like being pissed off.
The oppressor is not going
to trick me into being complaisant.
Don't tell me it's in my best interests
to let go of perceived wrongs,
to forget past injustices.
I'm remembering; I'm holding on.
Thinking is happiness.
The end of thought is defeat.
They tell you if you stop looking for causes,
explanations, history, you'll be happier.
The happiness of pigs ready for slaughter.
The happiness of those who have given up.
The happiness of those who have sold out
for TV shows and scented bath soap.
Those who have given up on throwing up.
And why the fuck should I be happy?
Because it makes you feel better?
But what you call happiness isn't my happiness.
When you say "happy," you mean
subservient, at ease, subdued, serene.
Angry is my happy.