#poetry about anger

[bl00dfroma-fairy]

[tojisun]

“any moment might be our last . . . we will never be here again.” excerpt from troy by david benioff, adapted from homer’s the iliad

(01, 02)

[backjustforberena]

Eve Best: Rhaenys somehow manages to stay above it all in spite of every single blow that’s thrown at her. The poetry of her literally coming to an end in the sky on her dragon and letting go into eternity is perfect.

Me: *sobs*

[vanx-97]

Too broke, beer bottle ashtrays

Lose control, Xanax every Saturday

new dope to deal with past mistakes

I'm tryna stay high until I pass away

300 a week just to get lit

Walk the streets, got a car that needs fixed

Nothing to eat, glad I don't have kids

Be a broken family if I ever did

Roaches in the microwave, bugs in the bed

Nose is a passage way for drugs to my head

Coexist with massive pain, I'm such a mess

Hopeless and mad ashamed, puff a cigarette

How are they so happy? Why not I?

Am I really worth it? Should I even try?

I think the universe wants me to die

Maybe it can all change if I stop getting high

(For the record, I am not about this life anymore. I have been clean from hard drugs for 4 years now. This is based on my past experiences and if you are in this place, please get help, love to everyone, thank you)

[memoriesndew]

[grackles-hoard]

Men when their anger is treated like a bad dog <- it’s me I’m men.

Idk I feel like respecting boundary isn’t hard to do, and it’s kinda the basic requirements for interacting with other humans, but maybe I’m tripping and that’s not right.

[coffeexxcigarettes]

Spite

-

And I never did any of it out of love,

But for the overwhelming desire

To feel more than human.

To be more than the sum of these

Rusty parts-

I clawed my way through dirt and blood,

Chewed the insides of my cheeks

Until they resembled gunmetal.

If I was not worthy

Of creation;

Born of sins I had not committed and forced to pay reparations-

I'd rip myself apart

Along with any who dared

To see the gentleness within me.

Suffocate the longing until all that remained

Was shining,

And more deserving of life

Than you.

x

[future-journalist-adventures]

Things I Wish I Could Say To The People Who've Hurt Me (a new series???)

To A Friend How could you not be there when I needed you most? When I felt broken, Unlovable, Alone. I recall, once, Sitting with you on the floor, You holding me in your arms, Promising me that you cared. And I believed you. Because how could you be lying? And perhaps you weren't. I suppose it is possible That you truly believed that you loved me, But somewhere along the way, things changed. It's funny, because no matter what changed for you, I've always felt the same. I have always had, and will always have, a trumendous amount of love in my heart reserved just for you. You, who loves so fiercely, And has so much emotion in your soul. I love you, and I have loved our friendship. But I will always hate what you did to me. I put my trust in you, because I finally felt safe. What did you do with that trust? That safety? That love? You laughed with your friends- our friends- at me, thinking, "how silly is it to want to be loved." You ruined everything that was once mine, Every safe space I'd created. And I hate you for that. But somehow, nothing could ever change how I feel about you. Because I still love you. No matter the cost.

[crowfromfoggyforest]

Rumbelle x Is/Not by Margaret Atwood

(aka part 1 of me turning my Rumbelle poetry analysis ramblings into something remotely interesting)

[psyche-tips-the-candle]

I hate that you weren't there. I don't know how to forgive you for it. You said that you'd look after me; you lied. You didn't. I was alone, the whole time, wishing you'd come back for me. You never did.

You never will.

[squishykitty825]

A bullet in the heart

Tragedy strikes when you least expect it

Raking its claws down your soul

Gouging deep gashes into your heart

Tragedy strikes when all seems right in the world

Ripping into you mercilessly

Tearing apart the happiness you fought for

Tragedy strikes faster than a viper and harder than a cannon

Shredding your thoughts to ribbons

Shattering your protective barriers

Tragedy can strike at any moment, piercing you like a bullet in your heart

Breaking your careful composure and leaving you bereft and reeling,

Sobbing on the floor screaming and clutching your chest

Death takes a heavy toll

And it doesn’t stop

It takes and takes and takes until there is nothing left to give

Until you are nothing more than a broken person staring into a shattered reflection of yourself

[coffeeandthoughtspoetry]

𝑖 𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑔𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝒉𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑝𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝒉𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑚𝑒. 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒𝑐𝒉𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑚 𝑖 𝒉𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑖 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑒.

[haveyouthoughtaboutcomicstoday]

Orm's journey from the full human half-sibling to half human, half atlantean half-sibling to full atlantean half-sibling. For how much he hates Arthur's human side in modern Aquaman books, it's only second to how much he despised it in himself.

[lookninjas]

2298.

I get angry, though. And I get, I do get we put the anger somewhere safe and deal with the world in compassion as best we can but can we at least like acknowledge some days I need like ten or fifteen minutes to put the anger somewhere safe?

[strawberrybyers]

decided to transfer taylor’s playlists over into my own playlists so i could make my own descriptions using linda pastan’s poem “the five stages of grief” and art pieces throughout history as the covers

1. denial ; i love you, it’s ruining my life represented by “courage, anxiety, and despair: watching the battle”, james sant, 1850

2. anger ; you don’t get to tell me about sad represented by “fallen angel”, alexander cabanel, 1847

3. bargaining ; am i allowed to cry? represented by “the last day of pompeii”, karl brullov, 1833

4. depression ; old habits die screaming represented by “the martyr of the solway”, john everett millais, 1871

5. acceptance ; i can do it with a broken heart represented by “resting”, victor gilbert, 1890

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

kerosene and other dietary supplements

there’s a dryness in the center of bite wounds, the ones that don’t get all the way through

teeth and saliva and blood; evenly divided semi-circles, perfect fifths, et c

but the skin between remains unblistered, unbroken

dry and calm

it’s funny, as long as the laughter is directed at nobody and maybe yourself

if it's still humor when the ouroboros reaches the end of its tail and stares back at itself

eyes and recognition and fear meeting for a second

the moment it takes for a jaw to widen, eyes rolling back in the lunge

and the snake is lust, it is doubt and a choking scream and violence

so tightly coiled it must forfeit sight to part its teeth

directionless and thrashing and begging for someone to do that again

take up shed blade and intent and for chrissake aim for something important

but mostly it sleeps in your chest, and mostly it isn’t a snake, and mostly you live around it

and it’s not lust

it is anger, enough pain and blood and guilt and violence for a lifetime

astounding what you can fit into fifteen minutes with a little depersonalization and a paring knife

still not lust

but there is a sex to it

something in the movement, in the quiet desperate shuffling

because it’s sex and it's grief and you don't even have to cry during

it’s sex and it's the closest you can get to dying without drawing attention to yourself

it’s tearing your skin down to brass tacks because maybe if you can get at the support hooks you can talk them into fitting correctly

it’s standing in the basin of a church parking lot on a thursday afternoon

slamming god’s finest car door into your forearm until it remembers who it belongs to

it hurts like godfire and it’s the closest thing you can have to sex without taking your clothes off

and it’s lust the same way that shallow midnight anguish is lust

it’s lust like an apology that stalls out, somewhere between bile and teeth

like a molding pomegranate, like a dead spider, blood and skin and eyes

smeared ever so slightly between your palm and the hole it was trying to escape to

it’s lust for as long as anger has to be yelling

has to seethe and bare teeth and throw plates at raised arms

as long as anger does not realize how to smile, to placate, to pray

as long as i love you has to be true

as long as you have to stare unblinking into the wound before it’s allowed to kill you

allowed to pus and rot and burrow through flesh until there isn’t any

lust like a maggot cupped gently into a corpse, bathed in sunlight

it’s lust because the grief counsellor can never dig quite fast enough

hard to keep up with the dirt, armed with your own inertia 

and twenty court-ordered minutes

and the kind of grief that doesn’t grip the silverware drawer to hurt other people

they never get to weapons made of strangers

to clothing that debrides skin if you fold it right, if you ask nicely

to throwing yourself against nails and teeth and flared collarbones

until the bruises start to slide together, till your skin is too stunned to scream at you

it’s violence but not for anybody else

that godless sex that gets you frowned at, by family and holy men

like all this little fucking conundrum was missing was disapproval

and the bite roils in your stomach now, bile creeping up between cracked teeth

they are vicious and eager and can never sink all the way through

‘cause it’s rotting, that dry little center

and you can’t bring yourself to check just how much progress it’s made

you’ve always looked a little like roadkill, anyway