It wasn’ that she was furious at him for not being able to perform in bed, because she knew it was mostly her fault for not being the wife that he needed around the house as well as the bedroom. But she had her own problems to work out firast.
I had never seen her like that, her hair plastered to her cheeks and her eyes on fire like they were the first time we kissed. Her words came out in snarls rather than in words. I looked to the woman besides me, we mentally agreed we couldn’t run fast enough.
The rage ripped through like a hurricane at full force. There was no calm ‘eye’ to this storm, however. No moment to take a calming breath and recenter oneself. No, this fury was born of something too deep and intimate to allow anything like calm back in. It was an emotional Armageddon unfolding, and none who stood in the way would be spared.
UGH. She slammed the door and threw herself on her bed. She kicked her feet up and down and made deep indentations on her beleaguered mattress. No carbs. No sugar. How is she supposed to deal with these cravings?! Don’t these diet experts understand what it means to be addicted?!
I was furious with myself for getting in the car in the first place. I should have known that no sane woman rocks up at three in the morning with grand plans for world domination looking for wayward teen accomplices. That would be too good to be true.////
Filled with fury he fun towards the closest man. His fists clenched, his eyes filled with tears, he run passing dead bodies of his fellow comrades. He did not care what was to happen next, he only wanted that bastard dead. Soon his wish was to become true and it would be his hands that were the tool of that resolved revenge.
When people get furious, it will affect others and they will feel anger too. However, I try not to because they’re getting furious for a reason, and maybe we can’t understand it, but they have a reason.
The kettle spluttered with the same intensity as her ruby lips.
“Don’t you dare question my loyalty to you, Mark.”
“Claire, how do I trust someone who tells a different story than everyone else around her?”
“Baby, you just have to trust me. Me. Nobody else; they’re all lying, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Mark slowly shook his head, “I’m afraid it’s not going to work this time.”
A furious storm raged outside, lashing rain against the window panes. Here within they were snuggled comfortably together, entwined in each others’ arms, engrossed in each other’ gaze, enchanted by each other’s presence.
It wasn’t in the euphoria of the fix, but in the wretched come down when his genius took flight. He attacked the canvas in order to fend off illness, to distract himself from the feverish tremors and unbearable nausea. It was the space in which he captured the glory and horror of his intoxicated visions before they left him. There was never much time and no planning whatsoever. He was a thing of beauty in that drugged up state, creativity in motion. He worked at a furious pace, mixing paint, changing brushes, dabbing, swirling his magnificent curved lines, forging out kinetic impressions of women, monkeys and his terrifyingly unhinged self. And when it was done and he had fallen into a messy heap on the studio floor, what was left was yet another masterpiece, surprising in its technical perfection and utterly original.
Angry, me, Nate, baby, my life, my social life. I hate who I am. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life. I hate him but I love him. He’s so mean to me. The baby drives me crazy. I’ve lost everyone dear to me. They kicked me out. They don’t care.
I ought to have been furious. I really ought to. But I wasn’t – although I could feel the anger thrumming in my chest, it was weak and fast, a slight, bothersome vibration – like a moth, or a failing heartbeat.
I wasn’t angry, not really. I wasn’t really anything.
I tilted my head at the entity in front of me. Not as a gesture – more as if my neck had come askew. “You killed her.”
you should be furious; mad; wrathful; enraged; livid
you should be hunting down those responsible for his death (for he is surely dead), tearing them limb from limb; you should be leaving pieces the size of fingers in your wake
but you can’t move; can’t eat; can’t speak
you’ve remained like this since last night, when you tried to stop him (“would you please not go…?”) and failed (“i’m sorry, tsukiyama”).
“…i appreciate you coming to stop me. but… i’m done with not being able to do a thing.”
his words echo in your mind, for the pursued shadow is no longer there. as a result, it is no longer in this world (deaddeadhesdeaddeaddeaddeadhesdeaddeaddeadhesdead).
and so, we head to the end.
(“you’ll die, you know,” a voice says, as its owner places a can of coffee in front of you.)
anger looms within
the son of a bitter selfishness
of opinion of the world
of personas that flit and scurry
about with an air of importance
of knowing of the self
saturating the linings
of the chords of the heart
it festers escapes through
the flush the sweat the voice
the silence the thoughts
recollecting understanding
of the other
of existence
of the universe
it coalesces chemically
bonding with the tie that binds
all life to one
releasing itself in droplets
echoing the spray
of the ocean waves
as they crash against each other
each attempting to follow the sway of the moon
The register of a writer takes out his/her fury on the analysis of the page, forfeiting all causes for enigma or audacious freedom of expression for outside influences. Robert Frost grabs hold of the vast freedom, and ever-going life handed to humanity by eternity.
You know, even though I’m currently watching Criminal Minds — a show that anyone could argue is predicated on high emotions — I’m currently too relaxed to relate to fury.
She swept into the throne room as winter itself, her frost coated steps accompanied by a furious, icy gale. Her advisers scattering under the force of her glare, the Ice Queen soon found herself alone. It was only then that she allowed the storm to settle, dismissing the lingering dregs of the blizzard with an exhausted wave of her hand.
Her ears heated, and words flurried from her head to her mouth. She wondered out loud, “Why are you being like this? After all this time?” Then she ran away, to save herself — and to save him.
I understand being furious. That emotion is one that I am far to familiar with. No. I am not comfortable with it. No. I do not enjoy it. Yes. I ache to never feel that emotion again. Being furious is a problematic emotion where I feel the immediate urge to strangle, to hurt, to be unkind. That is completely opposite to who I am and what I believe in. I am kind, friendly, and do not wish to harm. I aim to please (myself mostly – if anyone else, then it was by pure chance). I ache to be happy. I enjoy making others smile. I like to be a GOOD PERSON. That’s kind of subjective, though. Don’t ya think? What’s a good person anyways?
All I can really think about is my mama. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she got quiet. Her tongue would slide between her lips like she was biting it to keep from screaming. Her eyes would widen and I knew I’d done it.
There was a darkness in her veins, moving quickly to her heart, feeding the icy abyss that laid within. They say anger is passionate heat, flames burning within. But she held a fury that was a cold dead thing, the precision her mind used to turn anger to fury was an interesting thing. Dissecting out the emotions, the heart and passion of the matter, all she was left with turned out to be a black lump in the hollow of her heart, leaching the fiery passion away, leaching the warmth away.
Anger is easy to remedy, the right words, apologizes and acts can turn the scorching heat to warmth, but Ana was not angry. She was furious. And in that was a cold disregard for kindness, and it’s much harder to warm a heart back up then it is to cool it down.
I can’t believe my boyfriend dumped me.
I’m absolutely furious. I barely even got to know him. But whatever. It was his choice. I don’t even understand why it happened to be honest. I guess I’ll start from the beginning.
I could not stop. I screamed and screamed. Why did it happen? How did it happen? Why could I not stop? I screamed again. Silently, angrily. At anything that would cross my eyeline. Why? Then I realised, not one was listening.
When Grandpa got the call from my father that he would be visiting in the next few days, he was furious. I could tell even though he kept his voice level, simply by how he aggressively stirred his coffee and how his hands shook when he clutched the mug. I tried to ask him about it – whether or not we could just tell my dad to stay away, especially after what he had done to my mom – but he refused to respond to any of my questions. So I left him alone, until the day came.
I was absolutely mad as anything with the class, so so annoyed didn’t know what to do with myself cross could hardly beging to explain how I felt just angry
The eerie resemblance –
only I can tell the difference.
(II)
As I stepped in closer, closer and closer,
she appeared no nearer.
An illusion?
(III)
The girl wore a black shirt,
Way too over-sized
for her liking;
for my liking.
It made her disapprovingly cold,
distortedly grievous and
disproportionately raw.
She took one step back,
further.
(IV)
When she was asleep, I curiously rolled her sleeves:
Shock across my face,
Strokes across her now
sore, fragile, body.
She can’t feel her legs.
Hugging the numbness
in despair
for the last hope of self-love,
she swore in her dreams and
more often
in her nightmares
that never will she do this to her children.
(V)
Bruises bloomed across her skin.
Once, twice,
Again.
I vividly remember:
They were in shades of heart-breaking purple and
abominable blue.
At 7,
she was
helpless,
helpless.
(VI)
The brutal, callous world was on her
shoulders.
She seemed like only a piece of comparison –
of only diluted, weak worth.
Frustration, Frustration!
All that was in her mind was
“The world was against her.”
And each time she’d looked into the mirror,
sobbing:
“Why, oh, God, do I exist?”
(VII)
Every word from her only sounded like dissonance,
foreign material
Passer-bys judged her ruthlessly;
it made her despise the sound of her name.
She built a wall around herself –
Three seas deep and
seven mountains high.
She hated. She envied.
She questioned the meaning of Family,
She probed the presence of Love.
(VIII)
One night I visited her again:
still from far.
On nights when she wasn’t trembling in fear,
She read.
Books became her refuge,
in them she found her imaginary kingdom.
She pictured,
she explored,
she fulfilled and
she lived.
A tiny body cuddled in the corner of her bed.
(IX)
She knew only in books she could
find comfort.
She knew only in books she could
silent
the hysterical screams
of bitterness, lost and revenge.
She swore that books were better
than man.
Each drop of tear cried away furry;
Freedom is not far away.
Only knowledge can set her apart,
She knew,
she knew.
***
(X)
She grew up.
I can now clearly
see that she choose to vaguely remember
the screams,
the scars,
the “you” who destroyed her childhood.
But,
never could she really forget.
It flows in her traumatized
veins.
Yet,
She now echoes to herself:
“Tough time never last,
tough people do.”
She now stands before me.
The girl, the girl
I can now only vaguely remember –
is none other than the girl in my
mirror.
Now the I see
more resemblance,
This time I know that it is truly
me.
P.S. Amongst all this past that I have already decided to burry as I write this prose/poetry, I would like to thank my Heavenly Father for loving me first and showing me how to love the world. Little by little, you swallowed my angst against this world, you replaced my brokenness with your everlasting, unfailing love that I will ever be eternally grateful for. You showed me that your unwavering love can move the mountains of hatred and fill the gaps of solemn darkness in my deep sea of revenge and jealousy. You told me that the meek will inherit, that the pure at heart will see truth. Truly, in your trusty right hand, I was re-born again. In this new body and with this revolution, I can only express my sincere gratitude. Each time I come to you and pray to you, I know things can only get better. For the first time, you put a genuine smile on my face. Even when I was reflecting on the past (while writing this), made me wonder how I walked out of depression and agony. The only conclusion that I can come to: is you, Jesus. It would have been impossible without you, my saviour, my refuge and my strength. Thank you, Father. I love you.
Never but never have i been so furious. It’s like a burning sensation I just can’t extricate. Once again the check engine light is on…..after a month of garage work. And they promised it was perfect. Grrrrrrrr
She was furious. How dare the dog bite her? How dare the dog act like she was a piece of meat? He was just like her husband. Well, she would do with him what she couldn’t with her husband. That dog was going to lose his nuts. Mark her words, by the end of the week, that dog would be ball-less.
I couldn’t believe it. I had never felt such a feeling rise out of he pit of my fiery stomach. I could feel the acidity pulsing through my veins, I wanted to scream
She turned and looked at Hannah, her eyes blazing, her hands frozen in the air.
I watched to see what would happed; normally Hannah would back down- normally she would neer stand up for herself in the first plce.
“You go around, furious and negative all the time, and I’m sick of it,” Hannah said, holding her gaze. I drew in a breath and waited to see what destruction was sure to follow.
Furious. No, that word alone doesn’t cut it.
His ignorance wasn’t infuriating; it was disgusting, horrifying. How did people like him even happen?
“C’mon baby, I paid for your dinner. Now you’ve gotta give me something.” He lunged for my hand.
The waves crashed over our bow.The chill and the force scared me silly.
It wasn’ that she was furious at him for not being able to perform in bed, because she knew it was mostly her fault for not being the wife that he needed around the house as well as the bedroom. But she had her own problems to work out firast.
I had never seen her like that, her hair plastered to her cheeks and her eyes on fire like they were the first time we kissed. Her words came out in snarls rather than in words. I looked to the woman besides me, we mentally agreed we couldn’t run fast enough.
The rage ripped through like a hurricane at full force. There was no calm ‘eye’ to this storm, however. No moment to take a calming breath and recenter oneself. No, this fury was born of something too deep and intimate to allow anything like calm back in. It was an emotional Armageddon unfolding, and none who stood in the way would be spared.
UGH. She slammed the door and threw herself on her bed. She kicked her feet up and down and made deep indentations on her beleaguered mattress. No carbs. No sugar. How is she supposed to deal with these cravings?! Don’t these diet experts understand what it means to be addicted?!
I was furious with myself for getting in the car in the first place. I should have known that no sane woman rocks up at three in the morning with grand plans for world domination looking for wayward teen accomplices. That would be too good to be true.////
Filled with fury he fun towards the closest man. His fists clenched, his eyes filled with tears, he run passing dead bodies of his fellow comrades. He did not care what was to happen next, he only wanted that bastard dead. Soon his wish was to become true and it would be his hands that were the tool of that resolved revenge.
When people get furious, it will affect others and they will feel anger too. However, I try not to because they’re getting furious for a reason, and maybe we can’t understand it, but they have a reason.
The kettle spluttered with the same intensity as her ruby lips.
“Don’t you dare question my loyalty to you, Mark.”
“Claire, how do I trust someone who tells a different story than everyone else around her?”
“Baby, you just have to trust me. Me. Nobody else; they’re all lying, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Mark slowly shook his head, “I’m afraid it’s not going to work this time.”
A furious storm raged outside, lashing rain against the window panes. Here within they were snuggled comfortably together, entwined in each others’ arms, engrossed in each other’ gaze, enchanted by each other’s presence.
It wasn’t in the euphoria of the fix, but in the wretched come down when his genius took flight. He attacked the canvas in order to fend off illness, to distract himself from the feverish tremors and unbearable nausea. It was the space in which he captured the glory and horror of his intoxicated visions before they left him. There was never much time and no planning whatsoever. He was a thing of beauty in that drugged up state, creativity in motion. He worked at a furious pace, mixing paint, changing brushes, dabbing, swirling his magnificent curved lines, forging out kinetic impressions of women, monkeys and his terrifyingly unhinged self. And when it was done and he had fallen into a messy heap on the studio floor, what was left was yet another masterpiece, surprising in its technical perfection and utterly original.
Angry, me, Nate, baby, my life, my social life. I hate who I am. I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life. I hate him but I love him. He’s so mean to me. The baby drives me crazy. I’ve lost everyone dear to me. They kicked me out. They don’t care.
I ought to have been furious. I really ought to. But I wasn’t – although I could feel the anger thrumming in my chest, it was weak and fast, a slight, bothersome vibration – like a moth, or a failing heartbeat.
I wasn’t angry, not really. I wasn’t really anything.
I tilted my head at the entity in front of me. Not as a gesture – more as if my neck had come askew. “You killed her.”
you should be furious
you should be furious; mad; wrathful; enraged; livid
you should be hunting down those responsible for his death (for he is surely dead), tearing them limb from limb; you should be leaving pieces the size of fingers in your wake
but you can’t move; can’t eat; can’t speak
you’ve remained like this since last night, when you tried to stop him (“would you please not go…?”) and failed (“i’m sorry, tsukiyama”).
“…i appreciate you coming to stop me. but… i’m done with not being able to do a thing.”
his words echo in your mind, for the pursued shadow is no longer there. as a result, it is no longer in this world (deaddeadhesdeaddeaddeaddeadhesdeaddeaddeadhesdead).
and so, we head to the end.
(“you’ll die, you know,” a voice says, as its owner places a can of coffee in front of you.)
candy-apple dipped and just
melting for the chance
to swallow charcoaled bone
but your teeth are wide as stone
and you let the hunger grow
anger looms within
the son of a bitter selfishness
of opinion of the world
of personas that flit and scurry
about with an air of importance
of knowing of the self
saturating the linings
of the chords of the heart
it festers escapes through
the flush the sweat the voice
the silence the thoughts
recollecting understanding
of the other
of existence
of the universe
it coalesces chemically
bonding with the tie that binds
all life to one
releasing itself in droplets
echoing the spray
of the ocean waves
as they crash against each other
each attempting to follow the sway of the moon
The register of a writer takes out his/her fury on the analysis of the page, forfeiting all causes for enigma or audacious freedom of expression for outside influences. Robert Frost grabs hold of the vast freedom, and ever-going life handed to humanity by eternity.
I was a very angry kid. I had my reasons to be furious, but I’m glad I learned to let go.
You know, even though I’m currently watching Criminal Minds — a show that anyone could argue is predicated on high emotions — I’m currently too relaxed to relate to fury.
She swept into the throne room as winter itself, her frost coated steps accompanied by a furious, icy gale. Her advisers scattering under the force of her glare, the Ice Queen soon found herself alone. It was only then that she allowed the storm to settle, dismissing the lingering dregs of the blizzard with an exhausted wave of her hand.
Furiosity.
Her ears heated, and words flurried from her head to her mouth. She wondered out loud, “Why are you being like this? After all this time?” Then she ran away, to save herself — and to save him.
he is very angre <like someone who dont any thing mode
She slammed her fist at the table, struggling to keep her composure. Tears brightened her eyes, as her lips quivered, trembled.
Why would he do that?
What was wrong with her?
So many questions, and not enough answers.
Clenched, burning,
about to
boil over.
Kettle spitting
first erupting
blood bruising
I understand being furious. That emotion is one that I am far to familiar with. No. I am not comfortable with it. No. I do not enjoy it. Yes. I ache to never feel that emotion again. Being furious is a problematic emotion where I feel the immediate urge to strangle, to hurt, to be unkind. That is completely opposite to who I am and what I believe in. I am kind, friendly, and do not wish to harm. I aim to please (myself mostly – if anyone else, then it was by pure chance). I ache to be happy. I enjoy making others smile. I like to be a GOOD PERSON. That’s kind of subjective, though. Don’t ya think? What’s a good person anyways?
All I can really think about is my mama. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she got quiet. Her tongue would slide between her lips like she was biting it to keep from screaming. Her eyes would widen and I knew I’d done it.
There was a darkness in her veins, moving quickly to her heart, feeding the icy abyss that laid within. They say anger is passionate heat, flames burning within. But she held a fury that was a cold dead thing, the precision her mind used to turn anger to fury was an interesting thing. Dissecting out the emotions, the heart and passion of the matter, all she was left with turned out to be a black lump in the hollow of her heart, leaching the fiery passion away, leaching the warmth away.
Anger is easy to remedy, the right words, apologizes and acts can turn the scorching heat to warmth, but Ana was not angry. She was furious. And in that was a cold disregard for kindness, and it’s much harder to warm a heart back up then it is to cool it down.
I can’t believe my boyfriend dumped me.
I’m absolutely furious. I barely even got to know him. But whatever. It was his choice. I don’t even understand why it happened to be honest. I guess I’ll start from the beginning.
High school started. I barely had any friends
I could not stop. I screamed and screamed. Why did it happen? How did it happen? Why could I not stop? I screamed again. Silently, angrily. At anything that would cross my eyeline. Why? Then I realised, not one was listening.
When Grandpa got the call from my father that he would be visiting in the next few days, he was furious. I could tell even though he kept his voice level, simply by how he aggressively stirred his coffee and how his hands shook when he clutched the mug. I tried to ask him about it – whether or not we could just tell my dad to stay away, especially after what he had done to my mom – but he refused to respond to any of my questions. So I left him alone, until the day came.
I was absolutely mad as anything with the class, so so annoyed didn’t know what to do with myself cross could hardly beging to explain how I felt just angry
(I)
From afar, the girl looked at
me.
Faired-skin, red lips, black hair,
rosy cheeks.
The eerie resemblance –
only I can tell the difference.
(II)
As I stepped in closer, closer and closer,
she appeared no nearer.
An illusion?
(III)
The girl wore a black shirt,
Way too over-sized
for her liking;
for my liking.
It made her disapprovingly cold,
distortedly grievous and
disproportionately raw.
She took one step back,
further.
(IV)
When she was asleep, I curiously rolled her sleeves:
Shock across my face,
Strokes across her now
sore, fragile, body.
She can’t feel her legs.
Hugging the numbness
in despair
for the last hope of self-love,
she swore in her dreams and
more often
in her nightmares
that never will she do this to her children.
(V)
Bruises bloomed across her skin.
Once, twice,
Again.
I vividly remember:
They were in shades of heart-breaking purple and
abominable blue.
At 7,
she was
helpless,
helpless.
(VI)
The brutal, callous world was on her
shoulders.
She seemed like only a piece of comparison –
of only diluted, weak worth.
Frustration, Frustration!
All that was in her mind was
“The world was against her.”
And each time she’d looked into the mirror,
sobbing:
“Why, oh, God, do I exist?”
(VII)
Every word from her only sounded like dissonance,
foreign material
Passer-bys judged her ruthlessly;
it made her despise the sound of her name.
She built a wall around herself –
Three seas deep and
seven mountains high.
She hated. She envied.
She questioned the meaning of Family,
She probed the presence of Love.
(VIII)
One night I visited her again:
still from far.
On nights when she wasn’t trembling in fear,
She read.
Books became her refuge,
in them she found her imaginary kingdom.
She pictured,
she explored,
she fulfilled and
she lived.
A tiny body cuddled in the corner of her bed.
(IX)
She knew only in books she could
find comfort.
She knew only in books she could
silent
the hysterical screams
of bitterness, lost and revenge.
She swore that books were better
than man.
Each drop of tear cried away furry;
Freedom is not far away.
Only knowledge can set her apart,
She knew,
she knew.
***
(X)
She grew up.
I can now clearly
see that she choose to vaguely remember
the screams,
the scars,
the “you” who destroyed her childhood.
But,
never could she really forget.
It flows in her traumatized
veins.
Yet,
She now echoes to herself:
“Tough time never last,
tough people do.”
She now stands before me.
The girl, the girl
I can now only vaguely remember –
is none other than the girl in my
mirror.
Now the I see
more resemblance,
This time I know that it is truly
me.
P.S. Amongst all this past that I have already decided to burry as I write this prose/poetry, I would like to thank my Heavenly Father for loving me first and showing me how to love the world. Little by little, you swallowed my angst against this world, you replaced my brokenness with your everlasting, unfailing love that I will ever be eternally grateful for. You showed me that your unwavering love can move the mountains of hatred and fill the gaps of solemn darkness in my deep sea of revenge and jealousy. You told me that the meek will inherit, that the pure at heart will see truth. Truly, in your trusty right hand, I was re-born again. In this new body and with this revolution, I can only express my sincere gratitude. Each time I come to you and pray to you, I know things can only get better. For the first time, you put a genuine smile on my face. Even when I was reflecting on the past (while writing this), made me wonder how I walked out of depression and agony. The only conclusion that I can come to: is you, Jesus. It would have been impossible without you, my saviour, my refuge and my strength. Thank you, Father. I love you.
furious.
to admit that you make me so
would be to admit
you have my heart in your hands.
Never but never have i been so furious. It’s like a burning sensation I just can’t extricate. Once again the check engine light is on…..after a month of garage work. And they promised it was perfect. Grrrrrrrr
She was furious. How dare the dog bite her? How dare the dog act like she was a piece of meat? He was just like her husband. Well, she would do with him what she couldn’t with her husband. That dog was going to lose his nuts. Mark her words, by the end of the week, that dog would be ball-less.
I couldn’t believe it. I had never felt such a feeling rise out of he pit of my fiery stomach. I could feel the acidity pulsing through my veins, I wanted to scream
“Stop!”
She turned and looked at Hannah, her eyes blazing, her hands frozen in the air.
I watched to see what would happed; normally Hannah would back down- normally she would neer stand up for herself in the first plce.
“You go around, furious and negative all the time, and I’m sick of it,” Hannah said, holding her gaze. I drew in a breath and waited to see what destruction was sure to follow.
you can’t handle it
i want to tell you how my day was
i want to be honest with you
i want you to know me
you just can’t hear it
don’t tap your fingers on the table,
don’t fidget, be quiet,
tip toe around.
i don’t know what’s going to come out
who i will get
i try my best to help you, all parts of you
always always always
but i feel like something has been lost
been taken away
and i need to help myself
how can i be furious, when you are doing all you can…
i will love you until forever ends
but i still feel it:
furious.
Furious. No, that word alone doesn’t cut it.
His ignorance wasn’t infuriating; it was disgusting, horrifying. How did people like him even happen?
“C’mon baby, I paid for your dinner. Now you’ve gotta give me something.” He lunged for my hand.
I took off my heels and ran.