Bottom Feeder

Long walks with my temper
Take me down a dead end street
In contemplation;
Where do we start at the end?
Before I could collect myself,
I'm vacuumed in by a figure's armspread
With fiery gasps of iron-air,
Cornered in my circle of friends.
Won't he speak to you?

Emptied on the floor
Were the shells of my defenses,
Placing in his own
Bullets of condescendence.
Those people shafted me
Of my social weaponry.