The anger from her eyes showed the scared child within, the girl who was taught to fight and starved of the love she craved. I could see the pain beneath it and her soul drowning in this persona she'd carved to fit a world of indifference. But I can't help someone like that, not unless the tears come and they realise what's really going on. And I can't fight it, I won't, it takes such a toll on me to do so. The best I can offer her is a void, to let her shadow box until she craves the sunlight.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, February 13, 2019.

Anger boiled deep in my system, as hot as lava. It churned within, hungry for destruction, and I know it's too much for me to handle. The pressure of this raging sea of anger would force me to say things I do not mean, or to express thoughts I've suppressed for weeks.
I know I have to get out everyone's way before I erupt in my furious state. I know that this feeling will pass, but while it hasn't, I'm well aware I could really hurt people. So I escape. I run.
I bolt out of my house, jamming earbuds into my ears. Music pours out, sounding like the most beautiful noise I'd ever heard. I turned it up, shutting out the world around me and I just... Let go. Of everything.
I allowed the darkness I felt swallow me whole for a little while, but my music felt like it was flowing through my veins, calming me from head to toe.
I slowly emerged from the anger I possessed and I stopped running. Having the anger dissipate in me felt nice, and I felt calmer than I had before, I felt free.

By micky_roy, November 23, 2014.

She turned on Goode like an enraged panther.

By descriptionari, July 2, 2012.

Found in Murder in the Gunroom, authored by Henry Beam Piper.


As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, still smoldering underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, April 25, 2012.

Found in The Hunger Games, authored by Suzanne Collins.


Fires of fury and hatred were smoldering in the small narrowed eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of the various and creative means available to him for exacting revenge.


Mad as flies in a fruit jar, mad as a hippo with a hernia, mad as a monkey with a migraine, mad as Schrodinger's cat stuck in it's box.

By angela, March 7, 2012.

The beach should be all rounded stones by rights. The tide washes up and down does it not? How many eons has it been doing that. But when I take off my shoes as my mother instructs it is sharp flints that greet the delicate under-skin of my foot. Ahead the waves crash as if they had real power, white and foamy. But they die in just a few feet, nowhere near me really. The air has that salty, seaweed smell just like the beach did thirty miles down the coast and suddenly I can't see the point of repeating the experience. It was cold then, it will be cold now. Cold and smelly. I slip the shoes back on and turn to leave. Mother now has folded arms and I know I'm for it. “I didn't bring you all the way here so you could turn your nose up at the sea, my lad! I won't bring you again if you don't go in!” At her hip is the camera, she just wants the shot to post to her friends. My face falls like wet cement, I can't help it, it's how I feel. Now she isn't just angry, she's about to get nasty...


Red in the face, face the color of an over-ripe tomato, red as a brick, eyes squinting meanly, developed a tic, eyes looked like they might pop out, fists clenched, hard staring eyes, slammed fist down onto the table, voice with hard edge, shouting venomously, stomping feet, slamming doors, curt voice, clipped tones, stoney silence, stormed off, spitting with fury, torrent of rage, tiny bubbles of froth forming at the corners of the mouth, face contorted with the venomous outburst, brewing anger like tea in a pot or like a storm out at sea, anger boiling up inside.

By tiger, December 18, 2011.

The apples lie on the ground bruised. Their once rosy surfaces are flat and dark where they should be rounded and some have the tell take signs of mould. I should pick them up, take them to the compost but I won't. I'm too angry with Rebecca right now, her and her stupid dolls. I am sorry I broke her favourite, but how long can I keep on being sorry for? When does forgiveness happen? So instead of picking up the apples like a good girl I kick them around for good measure, only satisfied when they smack into the brick wall and crack open. The air smells of them now, sweet and fragrant. That should soothe me I guess, but it won't. I'm not going to be happy until every last one of them is broken open on the sodden earth.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, February 11, 2015.
Family Life

Anger is a silent huntress looming in the night, ready to strike when you least expect it. She hovers over you like morning fog, clouding your judgment. She deceives you whenever she wills. You see a threat and she sees game. One moment it's there and the next it's gone, leaving a trail of regret. And, with someone else's blood on your hands.

By abirdinflight, May 26, 2015.

rigid with fury, clasped hands, clenched fists, flushed and mottled neck/face, red in the face, crimson face, lost temper, shouting, yelling, violent, hitting, kicking, regret, grief, self-disgust, self-loathing, remorse, insecure, clumsy aggression, disturbing.

By loki, November 21, 2011.

Mad as a maggot, hopping mad, spitting rancid saliva with each maliciously punctuated word, clenched teeth, facial muscles twitching, narrowed eyes, hitting wildly with windmill-like arms, throwing a tantrum, threw the mug across the room, face like thunder, a face dark as gathering storm clouds.

By angela, December 18, 2011.

Carl ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed his father in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He snarled more than spoke. "Once I get a deposit together I'm outta here. I'm gonna be independent, get my own place, decorate it better than this shit hole you provide. You're not a Dad, you're a fail, a loser. You don't even make twenty bucks an hour!" His father dropped his gaze to the floor and hooked his thumbs into his worn jeans. These long years since Carl's mother had died had been the toughest. Shouting at his son never worked and he didn't have the chops for it anymore.

"Son, I will support you no matter what you decide, but nobody is independent, that's just the biggest myth out there."

"No, Dad, it's not. I make more than you already, I'm going and you can't stop me."

"Son, I'm not stopping you, but I love you, and like I said, no-one is independent." Carl took a step towards his Dad, a vein almost popping in his temple and his fists tightly clenched. The old man stayed right where he was. "Everyone depends on someone, Carl. Someone's gotta pour that concrete for your condo, someone empties the trash, someone grows your food. Hell, even if you go live in a mountain hut you still depend on the wildlife. I know you're angry son, but you're not the only one that loved her. I lost her too." Carl took another step forwards, now almost nose to nose.

"She was an angel and you cheated on her with, what was her name again? Was she someone you 'depended on,' Dad?" The old man stayed still, it was bad enough that he'd never forgive himself, but to Carl it was like he'd killed her...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, February 8, 2015*.