Poems On Rage Novels & Stories

LEVI I had a different type of rage, while others might burst out quickly and consume everything in its path. My rage was sort of the soft one and the most dangerous. It was a demon—a legion of them, it starts quietly and yet burns like an inferno in its wake. I was enraged at this moment, and in a way the fact that I was having a bit of a good day before the whole thing happened made it a whole lot harder to deal with at that moment.

****BEN**** Rage burned in my veins like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I threw my fists against the wall, feeling the pain shoot up my arms as I struggled to contain the overwhelming emotion. The red haze clouded my vision, blurring everything except the overwhelming need to release this pent-up anger. She can’t get married to that bastard. She is mine, only mine; no one but I have the right to be with her. No one but I can make her happy.

My wolf surged to the surface, rage igniting every nerve in my body. This is war!

Spiders and irresponsibility for instance. But rage was an emotion I had always tried to stay away from. I did get angry at times, in fact, quite a lot of times with my employees, especially my assistant. But rage is something different. It's not just a mere anger at something that goes away after some minutes. I believed that rage to be stronger than anger in so many levels. In fact, I'd always thought it to be the most dangerous of the triad. So I wanted to avoid it at all costs. And I had been successful at that. Up until now.

gone. I feel something surge within. Something bestial, hot and raging. As though from a distance, I see blue streaks race along my fingers, tingling and sharp, dangerous in their glory. Strike. Burn. Let the world feel your rage. What do I have my magic for? What good is it, if I cannot protect me and mine?

“Rhea…” But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Grief had no room left in me. Only rage. The kind that boiled under your skin until it poisoned everything soft. The kind that came when the dead came back wearing your father’s ring and your enemy’s mark. I turned away. “Take her.”

I said slowly, "is not a gift. It is not a blessing. It is not a mark of favor from the Goddess or whatever the fuck else the songs want to call it." I looked at my hands. "The Rage Wolf is exactly what it sounds like. It answers to rage. To anger. To fury. To every ugly, messy, destructive emotion that we spend our whole lives trying to control." I looked up. "My Rage Wolf," I said, "is in its infancy. Do you understand what that means? It's new. It's young. It doesn't know its own strength. It doesn't know its own limits. It answered to my insecurity, because it doesn't know how to answer to anything else yet."

I sat there at my desk in the gray morning light of the penthouse and I looked at my hands and I breathed very carefully because what I was feeling was not something I had vocabulary for. Rage was part of it. The cold, contained kind of rage that I was actually very familiar with. The kind that didn't burn but sat heavy and permanent like iron, settled into the chest and stayed there. I'd felt this kind of rage exactly three times in my life before today. When I was nineteen and I came home early from school and found my mother packing a suitcase, her lover waiting downstairs, her decision already made and immovable. When I was twenty-six and I discovered my father had deliberately undercut

The rage is too much, too deep, too ancient. It is the rage of a father who lost his son. The rage of a mate who lost his other half. The rage of a protector who would not fail his promise. He tramples over the fallen, his massive paws crushing their bodies into the blood-soaked earth. The rogues scream, but their cries are meaningless. They are nothing but obstacles, nothing but fuel for his fury. He is a hurricane, a wildfire, and they are the kindling. The memories flash through his mind, unbidden and relentless. Jace, his son, his light, torn from him too soon.

Not sadness or even fear. It was rage.