F*cking Rage? Who's Full of Rage?

People are gently suggesting to me that
I may be full of anger.

Anger? at what?

Lack of access to cultural capitol
due to circumstantial
time and space would be today's guess.
And yes, I'll keep that vague, opaque. Thanks.
Why? Because it seriously hurts d8mnit!

To use "this administration's" over-sexed metaphor,
I'd say that I'm tired of looking at all the juicy-wet, crisp
carrots dangling in front of me, only to have my ass flecked
with a bunch of sticks everytime I realize there is no self-serving reason (beyond mere survival) for stretching out my neck for them one more time--

Screw clarity. Nothing's clear.
Why should I pretend otherwise?

Point of Lecture today:
Freud (ok, I know he's basically bunk, but bare with me) believed that one outlet for repressed emotions buried within the Id came through creative expressions such as the arts. In this way outlets, such as writing, say, can become a healthy way of avoiding psychosis. What does such a theory have to do with blogging?