rage

I've always jumped on sentiment__nd here I am being more sentimental than anybody. What idiots girls are! I've always thought so. I suppose I shall sleep with his photograph under my pillow, and dream about him all night. It's dreadful to feel you've been false to your principles.

Broken people are the most dangerous...because they just don't give a fuck

Never judge badly a rage of a very patient heart who had let go many repetitive offenses from insufferable bastards.

But sometimes shame is a more powerful engine than rage. Like rage, it burns hot; and like rage it tends to consume its own furnace.

Laurence felt a weird combination of shame and rage, as though he'd grown another new body part just in time to get punched in it.

Parts of you are phobic of anger and generally terrified and ashamed of angry dissociative parts. There is often tremendous conflict between anger-avoidant and anger-fixated parts of an individual. Thus, an internal and perpetual cycle of rage-shame-fear creates inner chaos and pain.

Anger's like a battery that leaks acid right out of meAnd it starts from the heart 'til it reaches my outer me

I have a very hard time getting to rage. I always assume that maybe I've done something wrong and then forgotten about it.

But hatred and rage solve nothing. Like a might fire, they quickly consume whatever is fed them.Yet it can't last. Soon enough, they devour all around them and burn out, leaving nothing but a hollowed shell no longer capable of feeling anything at all. (First Guardian)

Whore!_ he snarls, slamming me into the wall so hard stars burst in my eyes. I hiss at him, the tiger in me threatening to emerge and rip out his throat, but a shout brings me back to myself.__ahra!__ turn my head and see Aladdin running toward us. When he sees that it__ Darian holding me roughly against the wall, his face twists into such rage that he seems unrecognizable.He crashes into Darian before the prince has a chance to say anything. The two slam into the ground, Aladdin throwing a punch that cracks against Darian__ jaw.__top it!_ I cry. __rince Rahzad!__he boys ignore me, rolling and thrashing like

He wanted to cut the man__ throat. Never in his life had he been so overpowered by such a desire to kill someone. It was a strange feeling, sweet and driven. In one leap he could be on him. His legs wanted to do it; they trembled with anticipation.

Animal rage is scary, but not as scary as control.

He feels the bleakness crawling into his skull; Franco breaths in steadily, trying to tune in all out, that pressure on your brain, eroding focus, diverting the flow of thought down old ruinous canals...

We say, "It wasn't that bad. It was all my fault. I__ making all this stuff up. "All my life, I spoke bitterly of my mother's treatment of me as a child.Friends asked, __hat did she do to you?_ I couldn't really describe it, and in frustration would say, __ell, she didn't lock us up in closets." in fact, my mother behaved much worse than that, but by focusing on the empty closet, I avoided looking at what waited beyond it.

For some there is no musicNo lightsNo fireNo untamed madness that breathes lifeThere is workAnguishFrustrationRageDespairA dullness that rings like wooden thunder

It was awful to be Negro and have no control over my life. It was brutal to be young and already trained to sit quietly and listen to charges brought against my color with no chance of defense. We should all be dead. I thought I should like to see us all dead, one on top of the other. A pyramid of flesh with the whitefolks on the bottom, as the broad base, then the Indians with their silly tomahawks and teepees and wigwams and treaties, the Negroes with their mops and recipes and cotton sacks and spirituals sticking out of their mouths. The Dutch children should all stumble in their wooden shoes and break their necks. The French should choke to death on the Louisiana Purchase (1803) while silkworms ate all the Chinese with their stupid pigtails. As a species, we were an abomination. All of us.

My jealousy is a living thing. Shifting, changing, growing. Like my rage and my mother's regret.

He was an artist, and she, an anarchist, the destroyer of his beautiful creations. His body tensed, pushing hot adrenaline through his body with irascible rage. His anger gave way to lamentation as his heart wailed for his lost inventions. His mind saw each one desperately screaming for help, their outcries echoing between the orange flames and ashy ruins of their compatriots.