Not A Poem

When the nights are black
And the shadows beckon
And there is only anger to be found
I will paint the walls with my knuckles
The crimson drops telling what words cannot
Suffering doesn't know how to present itself
How to dress itself in figurative language
Or how to speak in metaphor
The tragedies between these words
Don't know how to tell the story
But they know how to thunder
And maybe that's enough