The Writer's Nest

They are mistaken,
Those who think that anger is red.
That it bubbles up like a pot on the stove,
And lashes out as boiling water,
Scalding others and cooling itself.

Anger is brown,
It is murky in its motivations
And opaque in its origins.

It is a clear yellow,
Making its way into the heart,
Into the stomach,
Acidic and biting.

It is green
As it keeps score,
Envious and entitled.

It is blue,
Made of tears,
And the sky at 4 am of another insomniac night.

But mostly, it is white.
Empty and unforgiving.