Catharsis!

I have a theory in fact
that a feeling kept in
must explode into act,
but that there is more than one
way to skin, or better yet pet
that cat. Because the kitten's
back, notoriously pissed
at the wrong way you run
your hot hands upon it, is up.
Under better management,
you might have done something else. No,
don't interrupt, let me suggest.
Example: write a letter
to a woman's magazine, and
never send it. See? As long
as you put that feeling into act
somehow, it

has come to be! Intact,
if a bit tawdry.

Pretty easy, right?
Write a song! Learn
to paint still lives.
Life will go on, as
you depict it. Or
better yet, as you wished
you could. You start to realize
things. Next thing you know,
all those feelings have someplace
to go. Isn't that better?

No?

Well, it's fucking practice then innit?

You know what to do. You
don't need me,

or need me to tell you.

Ah. That's,
well. That's just
fine. And never
choose the lesser-meant word,
just to make a rhyme.

Take my advice, I know
what I've done and to whom.
And if you do as
well,

then you wouldn't be the only one, alone
in your room.