People

If tired was a person,
He would always droop,
Limbs, skin, eyes, smile,
Would all barely combine
To make him look alive.

If anger was a person
He would always boil,
Fists tight, eyes bright,
Ready to lay on you
For not being his kind of right.

If sorrow was a person
He'd just want to be
Left alone, all eyes averted
Tears swimming, shoulder dropping
Crumbling at any reckoning.

If mayhem had to have a name
He wouldn't pick one
Just to drive you insane
He'd crop up anywhere, at any time
He'd stir it up and toss it around
Before you were even aware he had a bomb.