Vent.

Vented.

Entry 4. Meant to be a poem of frustration. You can see that in the first two lines. Somehow transitioned off into a murder. Joy.

These stupid things enrage me so, What can it be, I cannot know. Shallow lies, deeming doubt-- Bloody eyes, burning out. Standing here, gleeful joy. With those ears, hear that boy? Screaming, writhing, judgment about. Here **I** stand, laughing out.