Novel & Cerita Poems On Rage

Rage drove her to run. She needed to exert herself, expend the boiling anger at the knowledge that because of her someone had dared harm her family. Cowards! She howled aloud, the sound echoing through the woods, a nature reserve set aside by the province to promote wildlife. And right now, given her turbulent emotions, she certainly counted.

“Tear it down now!” Rage screamed as his face contorted into something much more unpleasant than it usually was. His eyes grew redder in anxiety and anger as his strength went past his previous limits. His power was like a massive flood, and it washed over the two who were facing him, trapped within a construct of their own making. “We would struggle now,” Aegeus observed Rage’s changes and understood that things were going to get much harder.

“I hate all of them. And the worst part? I almost believed him. That I should just give up.” Zipper’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed even. “Don’t give him that. You break now, he wins.” “I don’t know how much I’ve got left.” “You’ve got plenty,” he said firmly. “You just keep wasting it on crying.” Her eyes snapped to his. “Wow. Thanks for the pep talk.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “Listen to me. Rage isn’t weakness. It’s fuel. You take what he gave you today, you use it. Not to shatter. To strike.”

Spiders and irresponsibility for instance. But rage was an emotion I have always tried to stay away from. I do 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 feel that rage is stronger than anger in so many levels. In fact, I've always thought it to be the most dangerous of the triad. So I wanted to avoid it at all costs. And I have been successful at that. Until now.

I press my forehead hard against the bars and whisper, hoarse but certain, “I won’t break. Not for you.” But that only lasted an hour and then the fire faded. Rage can’t hold forever. My arms tremble when I lower them, my muscles giving out. The cage creaks as I slump back against it, my body folding tighter. My chest rises too fast, each breath shallow, scraping my throat raw. My lips are bleeding. My skin burns. My head feels too heavy. “They’ll come,” I whisper, but my voice sounds thin even to me. What if they don’t?

He stood on the crest of the hill, his shadowy form swaying in the freezing wind. He returned his gaze to the Three Elders, emotionless as if he were looking at corpses. "What's the matter?" Dryly, the First Elder laughed. "Nothing, you should be on your way." Rage drew a dagger and turned to face the three. "What exactly do you mean?" The Second Elder shook his head. He stepped back and inquired hesitantly. Rage remained silent. He unsheathed his dual daggers with a bang. His aura erupted, the deadly intent colliding with the frigid wind.

I lunged, my eyes darkened with rage as I slammed my fist into his chest, knocking him off his feet. “What? Did my words hit a spot?” he laughed, rising to his feet. My eyes were blinded with rage, “I am going to kill you,” I snarled, my claws drawn as I aimed for his throat. I had missed it, the silver dagger that he had drawn. All I felt was a sharp pain in my abdomen as he stabbed me. “Rage has always been the death of a man,” he said in a smug tone. I groaned, my body thrashing in pain as I dropped to the ground. This wasn’t like any stab wound that I have experienced.

— ASARAIAH KAINE — The world didn’t tilt. It cracked. A cold, surgical fault line right down the center of my chest the moment I saw Calla’s braid in that box. People imagine rage as fire. No. Rage is ice—thin, sharp, ready to cut through bone. I stood in the open doorway, night wind tugging my hair, staring down at the dark braid tied with a red ribbon. Behind me—footsteps. Fast. Precise. Too controlled to be human.

So what are you going to do about it? Die here? Let him win? Or survive? And make him regret ever walking away? I floated. Deciding. Live or die. Surrender or fight. Let them win Or become something they'll regret creating. The anger wasn't love. Wasn't hope. It wasn't anything noble. It was pure. Cold. Rage. And it was enough. Enough to grab onto. Enough to climb. Enough to want to survive.

I only moved. Inside the air was stale with a dozen small violences. Cushions shredded, books ripped from their shelves, photographs stomped into paper dust. My kitchen lay gutted. Drawers yawned open. The sink held broken plates like white teeth. My little herb pots were overturned, soil smeared across the counter. Someone had taken a marker and written across the fridge door a message with the kind of cruelty that tastes like bile. I felt the burn rise and kept it where it belonged. Rage was good. Rage was a tool.