I dragged my fingers through the sand and
asked myself how anyone could find this zen.
This fire eating at my mind, these gripping tensions breaking,
bursting through my veins.
I raked through the garden with the metal pronged toothpick,
my blood boiling like whistling pot.
Swung my arm, got up, turned around, lashed out at the first thing I saw.
Sand showered over fallen scattered shattered glass.
It was never meant to last.

Author’s Note: Another random poem/piece that has nothing to do with me, like the majority of what I write. Obviously, the title/final line gives a pretty good clue what the person depicted with the zen garden is raging about.