Anger is born with the moment life draws breath,
An ancient companion that walks us to death.
It isn’t learned later nor chosen by will,
It stirs in the psyche, instinctive and still.
It lives in the blood, in reflex and fear,
A primal response when danger is near.
No creature escapes it, no mind stands apart,
It rises uninvited from the animal heart.
Anger is not ours to command or to own,
It comes from the depths where survival is sown.
We cannot control it, erase, or confine,
It forms beyond choice, in the unconscious mind.
What we can do is manage its fire,
Shape it with effort, not bury or tire.
For anger may live till the final sigh,
But wisdom decides how it speaks and why.
___ Manoj Mehta
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