Pretty Poetry For Everyday

Man holding his face

61 Intense Poems About Anger & Rage

Inside: Intense poems about anger: they’re all the rage.

Emotions are not something that come naturally to all of us, I know I sure don’t channel my own feelings very well, often, or comfortably. It’s an easy thing to find yourself doing, avoiding emotions. But if you keep them all bottled up, it’s not healthy either and they’ll eventually show themselves in nasty ways.

For me, after bottling up for a while, I release with anger. It’s not pretty, it’s not kind, and it doesn’t feel like I end up communicating what needed to be communicated to begin with.

Anger is said to be a secondary emotion. It’s an outward reaction to internal hurt, and I’ve seen this to be true in my own life. But reading the words of others was so healing. Hearing how their hurts overturned into anger, and it felt better for a while. But eventually it all simmers down and what you’re left with is the original pain.

Poems about anger and rage that are intensely needed

Read these poems about anger– if you’re angry from a situation or angry from bottling up everything else you feel, it’s all extremely valid. And you should let yourself feel those feelings. The best way to do so in some cases is to tap into it. Watch a movie or read poetry that pulls those emotions out of you and makes you realize that everything you’re feeling is heard. You’re not alone.

Maybe these make you channel your anger a little too much and it only increases. But in the end, you’re likely to find healing in your soul. Poetry has a way of doing that.

Connecting with your soul and putting the pieces back together.

Dive into these poems for some self reflection and determination to see what you’re feeling and face it! It’s hard but we all have to do it.

Why Is Anger So Powerful

Anger is such a powerful emotion for many reasons. Some like we’ve already discussed: that it’s usually due to a build up of a lot of bottled emotions and this tends to make us more susceptible to different offenses and hurts than we normally would when we’re maintaining a healthy emotional lifestyle.

I’m no therapist, but I do have some experience in the bottled up feelings department. It will never make life easier, so it’s best to find a professional that can help you work through things.

With anger being a secondary emotion, you don’t only have to figure out the source of your anger but then heal the hurt underneath. It’s a lot of work that many aren’t open to doing. It helps when you can acknowledge it and really let yourself experience it, rather than bottling up the anger too.

One of my favorite ways of doing this is to read and tap into other emotional projects to really feel what they feel and connect it with how I feel.

Anger is a powerful emotion, but that just means that the people that can relate to you are powerful too.

Poems About Anger And Depression

Emotions and negative feelings run deep. When you feel it, you need to let yourself feel it.

Here are some poems about anger and depression.

1. Reproach

He came in ruddy anger, and he flung
Quick, deeply-stabbing words, nor measured wounds,
Nor minded if a loving heart were stung.
My sobs uprose. I pressed them back to bounds.
Oh, could he know, his briefest look unkind
Were more than ample punishment to find,—
Reserve alone had all my bosom wrung.

By Ruby Archer

2. Letters I Have Not Sent

I have written them, keen, and sarcastic, and long,
With righteously wrathful intent,
Not a stroke undeserved nor a censure too strong;
And some, alas! some of them went!

I have written them, challenging, eager to fight,
All hot with a merited ire;
And some of them chanced to be kept overnight,
And mailed, the next day–in the fire!

Ah, blessed the letters that happily go
On errands of kindliness bent;
But much of my peace and my fortune I owe
To the letters I never have sent.

By Anonymous

3. A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

By William Blake

4. Keep Your Temper

It never did, and never will,
Put things in better fashion,
Though rough the road, and steep the bill,
To fly into a passion.

And never yet did fume or fret
Mend any broken bubble;
The direst evil, bravely met,
Is but a conquered trouble.

Our trials___did we only know___
Are often what we make them;
And mole.hills into mountains grow,
Just by the way we take them.

Who keeps his temper, calm and cool,
Will find his wits in season;
But rage is weak, a foaming fool,
With neither strength nor reason.

And if a thing be hard to bear
When nerve and brain are steady,
If fiery passions rave and tear,
It finds us maimed already.

Who yields to anger conquered lies___
A captive none can pity;
Who rules his spirit, greater is
Than he who takes a city.

A hero he, though drums are mute,
And no gay banners flaunted;
He treads his passions under foot,
And meets the world undaunted.

Oh, then, to bravely do our best,
Howe’er the winds are blowing;
And meekly leave to God tine rest,
Is wisdom worth the knowing!

By Ellen P. Allerton

5. Anthem For Doomed Youth Poem

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

By Wilfred Owen

6. The Visitor

it came today to visit
and moved into the house
it was smaller than an elephant
but larger than a mouse

first it slapped my sister
then it kicked my dad
then it pushed my mother
oh! that really made me mad

it went and tickled rover
and terrified the cat
it sliced apart my necktie
and rudely crushed my hat

it smeared my head with honey
and filled the tub with rocks
and when i yelled in anger
it stole my shoes and socks

that’s just the way it happened
it happened all today
before it bowed politely
and softly went away

By Jack Prelutsky

7. Absolution

The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes
Till beauty shines in all that we can see.
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,
And loss of things desired; all these must pass.
We are the happy legion, for we know
Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

There was an hour when we were loth to part
From life we longed to share no less than others.
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart,
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers?

By Siegfried Sassoon

8. Sonnet: A Lost Friendship

You were my friend then: now almost stranger!
Our friendship appeared once very glorious;
What happened meantime, gives me great anger;
Our friendship no longer remains serious.

Fool you were, to be misled by others,
Who drove a giant wedge ’midst our friendship;
Cut off is our friendship, which me bothers;
A nadir has come in our relationship.

What years of intimacy have been lost?
You’ve been foolish, very much on your part;
Our friendship today is just but a ghost;
Won’t your eyes see the true love in my heart?

Dear friend however, you can’t be my foe;
I hope that our friendship, blossoms once more!

By Dr. John Celes

9. Did I Not Say To You

Did I not say to you, “Go not there, for I am your friend; in this
mirage of annihilation I am the fountain of life? ”
Even though in anger you depart a hundred thousand years
from me, in the end you will come to me, for I am your goal.
Did I not say to you, “Be not content with worldly forms, for I
am the fashioner of the tabernacle of your contentment? ”
Did I not say to you, “I am the sea and you are a single fish;
go not to dry land, for I am your crystal sea? ”
Did I not say to you, “ Go not like birds to the snare; come, for
I am the power of flight and your wings and feet? ”
Did I not say to you, “ They will waylay you and make you
cold, for I am the fire and warmth and heat of your desire? ”
Did I not say to you, “ They will implant in you ugly qualities
so that you will forget that I am the source of purity to you? ”
Did I not say to you, “Do not say from what direction the ser-
vant’s affairs come into order? ” I am the Creator without
If you are the lamp of the heart, know where the road is to the
house; and if you are godlike of attribute, know that I am your

By Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

black and white photo of a man

10. Stop Me!

Stop me, good people! Don’t you see
My temper is running away with me?
Help, Master Commonsense! Are you afraid?
Good Mistress Prudence, come to my aid!
Stop me, Conscience! Stop me, I pray!
My temper, my temper is running away!
Dear Brother Kindness, snatch after the reins!
Help, or my temper will dash out my brains!
Help, or I’ll get a terrible fall!
Help, Shame, Caution, Love, Wisdom, and all!

By Amos Russel Wells

Short Poems About Anger

Some of the best poems are the shortest ones. Short, sweet, and to the point.

11. I Want To Name All My Oregon Trail Characters After you & Drown Them On Purpose

if I am a bed!
then the bed is on fire!

if I am a body!
it is of water!
and undrinkable!

if I mothered this anger!
I hope it grows legs!
so I can buy it boots!

By Cassandra de Alba

12. Anger

Wrongs, if neglected, vanish in short time,
But heard with anger, we confess the crime.

Robert Herrick

13. No

might make them angry
it will make you free

— if no one has ever told you, your freedom is more important than their anger

By Nayyirah Waheed

14. Fire

Remember what you must do
when they undervalue you,
when they think
your softness is your weakness,
when they treat your kindness
like it is their advantage

You awaken,
every dragon,
every wolf,
every monster
that sleeps inside of you
and you remind them
what hell looks like
when it wears the skin of a gentle human.


15. Where

Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath.

Eckhard Tolle

16. When Things Won’t Work

I have to say,
It makes me angry,
When things don’t go,
The way they should be.

I expect so much,
From things and people.
And when things go poorly,
I feel so ungleeful.

My temper gets hot,
And I don’t know what to do.
I just wish someday,
These things would pull through.

But I have to stay calm,
And roll up my sleeves.
Maybe some direction,
Is all that I need.

By Julie Hebert

17. Poison

Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.


18. Anger

It is the silent one

The one that holds
Its tongue

A punch
To the face

When words are

When words are

By A. Bentley

19. Rage Against

I rage against
The passing sun.
We are all
drifting, slowly
in the wind

By A. Bentley

20. Again And Again And Again

You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

By Anne Sexton


Every day
Each time
Your blood starts to run
In the wrong direction

Tell yourself
That you won’t be poisoned
by your own heart

By Leigh Fisher

Poems About Female Anger

The female anger is some of the most underestimated. I have experienced incredible art pieces with the topic of female anger, including poetry and stories.

22. The Silent Rage Of Women

is often underestimated because
taken for complicity or agreement
(if you really cared you’d speak up, now wouldn’t you?)
folks forget it’s not just fight or flight
but also freeze
in a slurry of how could you
why would you
what the hell were you thinking
(oh my stars and garters did he actually just do that?
Is this really happening? I thought this person was my friend?)
we were told to play nice
to smile to let it go to not be shrill
and our reflexes are stunted
caught between push and pull
locked solid with fear and fury
frozen and stuck
the moment of most danger in an earthquake
is when the plates of earth are crushed together
and there is no place where the pressure can go
(If I say stop will I be beaten and killed?)
And it couldn’t have been that bad
if you didn’t fight or yell or run away
you’re awfully calm for someone
who claims to be frightened
(what WERE you wearing?)
it was only in fun
no one meant anything by it

the tectonic plates are still grinding.
There is no place where the pressure can go.
Watch where you stand.

By Kate Holly-Clark

23. A Poem for Women in Rage

A killing summer heat wraps up the city
emptied of all who are not bound to stay
a black woman waits for a white woman
leans against the railing in the Upper West Side street
at intermission
the distant sounds of Broadway dim to lulling
until I can hear the voice of sparrows
like a promise I await
the woman I love
our slice of time
a place beyond the city’s pain.

The corner phone booth a woman
glassed in by reflections of the street between us
her white face dangles
a tapestry of disasters seen
through a veneer of order
mouth drawn like an ill-used road map
to eyes without core, a bottled heart
impeccable credentials of old pain.

The veneer cracks open
she lurches through the glaze into my afternoon
our eyes touch like hot wire
and the street snaps into nightmare
a woman with white eyes is clutching
a bottle of Fleischmann’s gin
is fumbling at her waistband
is pulling a butcher knife from her ragged pants
her hand arcs backward “You Black Bitch!”
the heavy blade spins out toward me
slow motion
years of fury surging upward like a wall
I do not hear it
clatter to the pavement at my feet.

Gears of ancient nightmare churn
swift in familiar dread and silence
but this time I am awake, released
I smile. Now. This time is
my turn.
I bend to the knife my ears blood-drumming
across the street my lover’s voice
the only moving sound within white heat
“Don’t touch it!”
I straighten, weaken, then start down again
hungry for resolution
simple as anger and so close at hand
my fingers reach for the familiar blade
the known grip of wood against my palm
for I have held it to the whetstone
a thousand nights for this
escorting fury through my sleep
like a cherished friend
to wake in the stink of rage
beside the sleep-white face of love.

The keen steel of a dreamt knife
sparks honed from the whetted edge with a tortured shriek
between my lover’s voice and the grey spinning
a choice of pain or fury
slashing across judgment like a crimson scar
I could open her up to my anger
with a point sharpened upon love.

In the deathland my lover’s voice
like the roar of a train derailed
on the other side of a river
every white woman’s face I love
and distrust is upon it
eating green grapes from a paper bag
marking yellow exam-books tucked into a manila folder
orderly as the last thought before death
I throw the switch.

Through screams of crumpled steel
I search the wreckage for a ticket of hatred
my lover’s voice
a knife at her throat.

In this steaming aisle of the dead
I am weeping
to learn the names of those streets
my feet have worn thin with running
and why they will never serve me
nor ever lead me home.
“Don’t touch it!” she cries
I straighten myself
in confusion
a drunken woman is running away
down the West Side street
my lover’s voice moves
a shadowy clearing.

Corralled in fantasy
the woman with white eyes has vanished
to become her own nightmare
and a french butcher blade hangs in my house
love’s token
I remember this knife
it carves its message into my sleeping
she only read its warning
written upon my face.

By Audre Lorde

Four women sitting together

24. As A Woman

The things I want so desperately to say
To convey
But I don’t, won’t rather – can’t
I’m afraid, and I shouldn’t be
As a Woman.

The things you should know, read
Beyond the casual
Within the anger, the depth
The things you will never feel
As a man

By A.M

25. The Angry Woman

I am a woman, with a woman’s parts,
And of love I bear children.
In the days of bearing is my body weak,
But why because I do you service, should you call me slave?

I am a woman in my speech and gait,
I have no beard (I’ll take no blame for that!)
In many things are you and I apart,
But there are regions where we coincide,
Where law for one is law for both.

There is the sexless part of me that is my mind.

You calculate the distance of a star,
I, thanks to this free age, can count as well,
And by the very processes you use.
When we think differently of two times two,
I’ll own a universal mastery in you! —

Now of marriage, —
In marriage there are many mansions,
(This has been said of Heaven).
Shall you rule all the houses of your choice
Because of manhood or because of strength?
If I must own your manhood synonym for every strength,
Then must I lie.

If sex is a criterion for power, and never strength,
Who do we gain by union?
I lose all, while nothing worthy is so gained by you,
O most blessed bond!

Because of marriage, I have motherhood.
That is much, and yet not all!
By the same miracle that makes me mother
Are you father.

It is a double honour!
Are you content to be from henceforth only father,
And in no other way a man?
A fantastic creature like a thing of dreams
That has so great an eye it has no head.
I am not mother to abstract Childhood, but to my son,
And how can I serve my son, but to be much myself?

My motherhood must boast some qualities,
For as motherhood is diverse
So shall men be many charactered
And show variety, as this world needs.

Shall I for ever brush my infant’s hair?
Cumber his body in conceited needle-work?
Or shall I save some pains till he is grown?
Show him the consolation of mathematics
And let him laugh with me when I am old?

If he is my true son,
He will find more joy in number and laughter
Than in all these other things.

Why should dull custom make my son my enemy
So that the privilege of his manhood is to leave my house?
You would hold knowledge from me because I am a mother,
Rather for this reason let me be wise, and very strong, —
Power should be added to power.

And now of love! —
There are many loves.
There is love, which is physiology,
And love, which has no more matter in it than is in the mind.
There is spiritual love, and there is good affection.
All these loves women need, and most of all the last.

Kiss me sometimes in the light.
Women have body’s pain of body’s love.
Let me have flowers sometimes, and always joy.
And sometimes let me take your hand and kiss you honestly.
Losing nothing in dignity by frank love
If I must fly in love and follow in life,
Doing both things falsely,
Then am I a mime ,
I have no free soul.
Man! For your sake and for mine, and for the sake of future men,
Let me speak my mind in life and love.
Be strong for love of a strong mate,
Do not ask my weakness as a sacrifice of power.
When you deny me justice
I feel as if my body were in grip of a cold octopus,
While my heart is crushed to stone.

This rapture have I of pretence!

By Anna Wickham

26. An Ode To Angry Women

In my all girls catholic school, we were neat, we were quiet, we were pretty.
We moved soundlessly through halls, fingers pressed to lips.
We spoke when spoken to, and sang of a Friday-
the elderly prayed for our purity, I prayed for a decent Irish test.
We played violins (as tightly strung as we would become)
But it never sounded right.
Now, I am barely a woman, I am struggling to find my voice.
It is sequestered away behind a wall of hushed fingers, of names used in vain,
it was never on the booklist.
Our prayers came too little too late for Savita and the septic tanks: atavism on atavism on atavism.
But each day within me there is a rage which rises with a vengeance, with all the
dissonance of untuned violins.
In my all girls catholic school, we were pretty, we were quiet, we were neat.
Now we are angry women, this song is not complete.

By Jenny Thompson

27. Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

By Sylvia Plath

28. Pretty, Angry Girl

I saw her again tonight
That pretty, angry girl among so many others.
Her hair fell over her dark eyes,
A bitter frown on her pale face.

Her words are so brutal and curt.
She writes of stupid, ugly things
Battered, tattered things
I can’t help but wonder
If that girl who hides behind
Blue skies and sunshine smiles
Popular friends and a rule-all attitude
Has a method to her madness.

I long to ask her, though I know I’d be met with trouble
Speak quietly and ask,
“What are you so angry at?”
Is it the world?
Her life?
The parallel white scars on her left wrist
Long healed, but unwilling to disappear?
Why does she feel like tomato juice
In a world of bubbly citrus?

Does she want to be relieved
Of whatever burden pains her?
Can she find the power
To release herself from her wrought-iron cage?
Does she need a true friend
As badly as she needs a real smile?

Pretty, angry girl, I wish I could help you.
I really do.

By Sam Dunlap

29. Angry Women

Women in peignoirs are floating around
the landscape well out of eyesight
let alone reach. They are as palpable
as the ghost of my dog Rose whom I see
on long walks, especially when exhausted
and my half-blind eyes are blurred by cold wind
or sleet or snow. The women we’ve mistreated
never forgive us nor should they, thus their ghostly
energies thrive at dawn and twilight in this vast
country where any of the mind’s movies can be played
against this rumpled wide-screened landscape.
Our souls are travelers. You can tell when your own
is gone, and then these bleak, improbable
visits from others, their dry tears because you were
never what you weren’t, so that the world
becomes only what it is, the unforgiving flow
of an unfathomable river. Still they wanted you otherwise,
closer to their dreamchild, just as you imagined
fair maidens tight to you as decals to guide
you toward certainties. The new pup, uncrippled by ideals,
leaps against the fence, leaps at the mountains beyond.

By Jim Harrison

30. Just Another Angry Black Woman

My black is beautiful.
I’m not what media perceives me to be as a black woman –
I can’t be loud, I can’t yell. I can’t express myself in the most
passionate and fiercest ways that lie in my heart because well,
I’m not supposed to yell.
I’m not bitter and I’m not angry,
but if this keeps up, I’ll be pretty pissed off and hey,
it won’t be a surprise to them.
I’m just so tired:
Tired of being pretty “for a black girl;”
Tired of having good hair “for a black girl;”
Or wait, the one that gets me: “you look better when your hair is straight.”
Did I ask?
Why does my hair have to be straight
like a white woman’s to be beautiful?
I like my curls, and I like my naps.
My black is beautiful.
Our black is beautiful.
All shades of melanin, all differences, all similarities.
We’re beautiful as a whole and as individuals.
God forbid,
I wear something tight or something a little short
Our hips and our curves, because we fill out an outfit
We’re judged and we’re chastised
I’m not sorry that my dress rides up because
it’s not my fault.
I won’t change who I am to fit your wants.
As a woman, there’s doubts
As black, there’s doubts
Now us black women, there’s doubts beyond measure
and we prove these wrong every time.
Our black is beautiful.
I’m not angry, I’m not bitter.
I’m tired of this fight to prove our worth.
Stop treating us as lesser and maybe we wouldn’t seem so angry.
My black is beautiful,
and you don’t need to see it for me to know it.

By Symonay

31. The Mad Woman

Oh blame me not that his lips were red,
Or that my eyes on his went blind,
A lead am I in a ruthless wind–
I’ll dig me a grace and rest me, dead.

Wolf-winds, a pack,
I dragged by the back
And loosened them at his door.
Asp of despair, crawl into his lair

And eat his heart to the core.

For the baby he gave to me
The moon fell into the sea.
The white leopards of foam
Said, “Carry it home!”
So I put it into a [sack]
And carried it home on my back.

I lit the lantern of the sun,
And stole the blue cloth of the sky–
A cover for my little one.
I made his crib. Is that his cry?
Let me run, let me run,
My eyes grow sad for my son.

By Scharmel Iris

Rage Poems

32.Time’s Lesson

Mine enemy is growing old, —
I have at last revenge.
The palate of the hate departs;
If any would avenge, —
Let him be quick, the viand flits,
It is a faded meat.
Anger as soon as fed is dead;
‘T is starving makes it fat.

By Emily Dickinson

33. The Three Laws

Love is the golden law,
Sunnily dear;
Justice, the silver law,
Cold, calm, and clear;
Anger, the iron law,
Harshly severe

Anger’s an iron lance
Mighty to slay;
Justice, a silver scale,
Faultless alway;
Love is a golden ring,
Joining for aye!

By Anonymous


I’m so mad I could scream,
I’m so mad I could spit,
Turn over a table,
Run off in a snit!
I’m so mad I could yell,
I could tear out my hair,
Throw a rock through a window,
Or wrestle a bear!
On thinking it over
I will not leave home
But I’ll put all my anger Right here in this poem.

I’m feeling much better –
Like peaches and cream –
For a poem is the best way
Of letting off steam!

By William Cole

35. Let It Pass

Be not swift to take offence;
Let it pass!
Anger is a foe to sense;
Let it pass!
Brood not darkly o’er a wrong
Which will disappear erelong;
Bather sing this cheery song-
Let it pass!
Strife corrodes the purest mind;
Let it pass!
As the unregarded wind,
Let it pass!
Any vulgar souls that live
May condemn without reprieve;
‘Tis the noble who forgive;
Let it pass!
Echo not an angry word;
Let it pass!
Think how often you have erred;
Let it pass!
Since our joys must pass away,
Like the dew-drops on the spray,
Wherefore should our sorrows stay?
Let it pass!

By Anonymous

36. The Deeds Of Anger

I used to lose my temper an’ git mad an’ tear around
An’ raise my voice so wimmin folks would tremble at the sound;
I’d do things I was ashamed of when the fit of rage had passed,
An’ wish I hadn’t done ’em, an’ regret ’em to the last;
But I’ve learned from sad experience how useless is regret,
For the mean things done in anger are the things you can’t forget.
Now I think I’ve learned my lesson an’ I’m treadin’ gentler ways,
An’ I try to build my mornings into happy yesterdays;
I don’t let my temper spoil ’em in the way I used to do
An’ let some splash of anger smear the record when it’s through;
I want my memories pleasant, free from shame or vain regret,
Without any deeds of anger which I never can forget.

By Edgar A. Guest

37. Anger

When in a farmhouse kitchen that smelled
of old rinds and wet cigarette butts
I hoisted the shotgun to my shoulder
and aimed but did not fire it at the man
who had just taken my virginity like a snack,
with my collusion, but still —

When I sat in a conference room
in an inquisition
at the “newspaper of record,”
across from the one slurping his pipe,
the one arching her eyebrow,
and I felt the heat like a wet brand in my chest,
repaid insult for insult and left their fancy job
like a squashed bug on the floor —

When I was twelve, too old, the last time my father
spanked me, pants down,
because I had “distressed” my mother
and my vision went red-black and
I did not forgive —

When, during my travels along the Gulf Coast,
the intruder returned in the night
and I did not call the cops again but stood
with a butcher knife facing the door, yelling, “Come in!”
although this time it was just the wind flapping
and banging the screen door —

When across a skating-rink-sized glistening table
I told the committee chair and her brooch I was a fan of Marx
and lost the fellowship —

When I threw a pot of hot coffee
and it just missed a man’s head, and the black-brown spatter stains
were still there four years later long after he’d left me
when I finally moved out of that East Village hole —


I would have had to be thinking
in order to have thought — loaded, not loaded?
— and I was not thinking, I was only dripping hot
and oh the pleasure, I can still feel its prickling,
crackle over the furnace of my rage,
to see his face go pale, his eyes widen,
his “put it down, put it down” — and I
put it down and allowed my life as well as his
to go on.


I miss my anger. Decades go by
when all I can muster is absent-minded invective,
you know, directed at the news;
or a brief fantasy
of shoving someone in front of a bus. Yesterday
I slammed my fist on my desk
and then apologized, to the desk.

Consider the tapestry of the seven deadly sins, at Saint-Denis:
Anger, wild-haired and half-dressed,
picked out in blue and silver thread bunched
against the crimson,
rough against the fingertips, she
rides a black boar dappled with blood
and waves her double-headed axe —

Yes, I remember her.
I always lie when I always say
I didn’t know the gun was loaded.

By April Bernard

38. Castle Walls

I never noticed in all that time,
How vulnerable you made me.
Despite throwing up the castle walls,
Raising the drawbridge,
Readying the archers,
You were already inside.
An infiltrator to cut the neck of the snake,
Leaving the rest of the tower to crumble.
You helped me build them all.
Brick by brick, you left openings.
You made your way in
Through back doors you designed.
You knew every blind spot
Because you were the one who made them.
You froze me in place so that
You could run after I learned
To walk again, after you left me
Crawling through the much and sick.
And yet you had the audacity
To call me a coward in the end,
Because I had the gall
To cast you out like a demon.

By G Loxley

39. On Anger

My white therapist calls it my edge, I hear
Angry Black Woman. She says, Strength
of Willful Negative Focus. She says, Acerbic
Intellectual Temperament. I copy her words
onto an index card. She wants
an origin story, a stranger with his hand
inside me, or worse. I’m without
linear narrative and cannot sate her. We
perform rituals on her living room floor. I burn
letters brimming with resentments, watch
the paper ember in the fireplace, admit
I don’t want to let this go. What if anger,
my armor, is embedded in the marrow
of who I am. Who can I learn to be
without it? Wherever you go,
there you are. She asks what I will lose
if I surrender, I imagine a gutted fish,
silvery skin gleaming, emptied of itself—

By Rage Hezekiah

man looking at a gallery wall reciting poems about anger

40. These Bare Walls

On these bare walls
there once hung
artwork that was picked by you,
which you’d then picked over,
leaving only a needlepoint
your mother made for our wedding
and a picture an alcoholic friend gave you
of a bear

How ironic now,
it seems, they’re not so bare
since I’ve hung a painting of
dancing bears on the bare wall where
I took down the needlepoint
and a butterfly,
in the bare spot you left
by the front door

By David Brown

41. Grave Society

Society’s dead
Digression came with costs
We are digging graves

By Lyn Church

Emotional Poems About Anger

Digging down deep can bring up a lot of emotions. Poetry tends to do that to you.

Read these emotional poems and really think on them.

42. Poets Have Power

Poets have power
The pen of anger and love
Paints feeling of heart

By Ray Dillard

43. Dark And Stormy

I need to be where there is no me
I want you to go where there is no you
Where wind rips my hair and waves drown my ears
Let’s go to the dark and stormy

I’ve got a mind that won’t stop thinking
I’ve got a body that just wants to sweat
I’ve got a heart that’s ripe for the breaking
Why haven’t you broken it yet?

I’m a disaster waiting to happen
I’m your nightmare wrapped in a smile
High maintenance is miles below me
You’ll only dare stay for a while

I’ve got a mind that won’t stop thinking
I’ve got a body that just wants to sweat
I’ve got a heart that’s ripe for the breaking
Why haven’t you broken it yet?

(Hey! What are you still doing here?)

Stop gazing at me like a saint or an angel
Your admiration is too much to bear
Why can’t you hate me the way that I hate me
I know that I’m dark and stormy

I’ve got a mind that won’t stop thinking
I’ve got a body that just wants to sweat
I’ve got a heart that’s ripe for the breaking
Why haven’t you broken it yet?

By brokentitanium

44. Dear Mom

Dear Mom,
You said you’d always be there
But you’re nowhere to be found
I can’t believe you left me
I feel so low beneath the ground

There’s nothing I can do now
I trusted you with all my heart
But now you’re gone
You’re the one who tore my life apart

I’ve learned not to trust
There’s nothing more to say
You’ve lost someone special
You can’t get back each day

Now you’re the one left in the dark
And all of a sudden you feel my pain
You expect me to take you back
But you still feel you’re not to blame

I could never forgive you
Even if I tried
You can never make up
For the lonely nights I’ve cried

You will never know the feeling
Of losing the person you need the most
To laugh and cry and love you
Instead of making you feel like a ghost

I’ve moved on with my life
Without you by my side
My pain has kept so long
I’m telling you how I feel inside

In a way I want to thank you
Because of you I’m strong
I just wanted you to know
I didn’t turn out wrong

By Krystal A. Bayer

45. Blind

You are blind.
You can never see
All the anger built up in me.
I hated life,
I wanted out.
You didn’t care.
You would just shout.

I felt so alone,
Thought I didn’t need anyone.
Turns out I just needed a mum.

The black sheep,
I was never a part,
Furthest away from your heart.
Things have changed.
I’m growing old.
I don’t need you;
You still feel cold.

I’m now out of sight,
Out of mind.
I don’t need you, I’ll do all right.
I don’t need your blessing
Or your cash.
Without your help I’ll make a splash,
Land on my feet with a crash.

I’m happier than ever.
My life’s brand new,
And most of all,
I’m not like you.

By Jack Mcifco

46. Fierce

Sometimes it gets fierce
like it’s looking to escape.
But I tell it not yet.
I get it to calm.
Tell it I need it in place

But no matter how much
I speak peace it still gets fierce.
So much so I have to wonder
when its time will come
and mine will go.

But not yet. Not now.
Now I’m fierce enough.
Enough to speak peace
in words learnt over long years.
Long enough to keep pace,
keep to my off-beat rhythm
that’s beaten it down
into a life-long submission

While knowing that life-long
isn’t long enough
and the beat won’t go on
ad nauseam.

But yes, I get fierce enough,
enough to keep the beast in its place.
– My time hasn’t expired yet.

I know my time will get old.
But not yet.

By Steve Page

47. Woman’s Curse

What a world I live in
To experience emotions as powerfully as I do

My sadness is not an ache in my heart
With mascara tracks running down
It is deep, mournful, body-shaking sobs
Oceans of clear tears streaming from reddened green eyes

My anger is not a flickering flame of annoyance
Nor a clenched body needing a release
But an entirely enveloping wildfire
Blinding me from reason and logic

And neither is my love just comfort
Or a desire to care and be cared for
But a presence that encapsulates every thought
Every movement, every moment, defined by desire

Oh, it is a poet’s dream
And a woman’s curse

By Faith

48. Dreams Of Death

the calves have
their odor
and the willow-
cried her last tear
in agony.

By Simkha Shayevitch

49. Like A Tree In A Desert

Prick me with your vivid green awareness
Let the white pins that needle me
Diminish into their foggy sham

The bridal wreath that scented our commitment
Now doused in unkept hopes and promises
Moss sprouting venom from hurts battled

Like a fish floating in space with no oxygen
I swam in currents without you
The tank occupied with endless dark clouds

Fraught with fear and loneliness
Love now submerged deep in the recess of my mind
Unclear what is sacred what is trash

I prayed you would see the light
That my white knight would return
This battle is fierce and yours to fight

By Carol B

50. Govern The Temper

Hold your temper for self sake.
This is the prudent way:
Often when it is not controlled,
It hands the body down to the clay,
When passions condemn our feeble hearts,
And conscience asks the mind to obey;
We find our selves vain and defiled.
And in sin have gone astray.
Temper governed and tongues withheld,
Keeps peace day by day;
When the body discharges the violence of temper,
Friendship tears away.

Eternity is for ever and ever,
Life is only a short stay;
If we control our tongues and temper,
The less we will account for judgment day.
By holding the temper we learn
A pleasant and prudent way;
Temper held dliscloses the bloom of life,
With a fragrant savor that never will decay.
Perverted temper kindles the tongue
Ambition leads to a fight or fray;
But bravery is caution, wisdom reflects.
And makes no trouble to pay.
The best we can do we cannot avoid,
And drive all temper away;
But thought and meditation will help to restrain.
And finally peace and comfort will pay.

By J.J. Thorne

a road at night

These poems about anger bring out the most intense emotions and poetry can be a needed relief.

51. Anger Is

Anger is a thing that brings
Negative and sad things
Find a way to control your feeling
Don’t let it send you reeling.

Anger is an emotion
That can be compared to an explosion
But it doesn’t have to be that way
If you control it and keep it at bay.

Anger can hurt and it can harm
When you feel it is reason for alarm
Go for a walk, just cool off
Then sit down and have a talk.

When you don’t give in to it
When you don’t throw a fit
You will find control you will have
And for that you’ll be glad.

By Catherine Pulsifer

Angry Poetry

Letting anger out in a healthy way is a good thing! Maybe let these angry poems inspire you to write your own poetry to get the words out.

52. Guard Thy Lips

Oh, when harsh and hasty words arises
And clouds of vexation dim the eyes,
And anger begins to settle down.
And the face puts on a sullen frown;
When wrathful thoughts rush quickly up,
Oh, dash aside the poisoned cup.
And guard thy lips!

Guard them, lest, in an unguarded hour,
They should utter, beyond thy power,
Words to wound some loving heart,
Perhaps, a lasting scar impart;
Inevitable words when once they’re spoken.
Nothing can heal the heart they’ve broken.
Then, guard thy lips!

By Lillian E. Curtis

53. Words And Tones

It’s not so much what you say
As the manner in which you say it;
It’s not so much the language you use
As the tone in which you convey it;

“Come here!” I sharply said,
And the child cowered and wept.
“Come here”, I said – He looked and smiled
And straight to my lap he crept.

Words may be mild and fair And the tone may pierce like a dart;
Words may be soft as the summer air
But the tone may break my heart;

For words come from the mind
Grow by study and art –
But tone leaps from the inner self
Revealing the state of the heart.

Whether you know it or not,
Whether you mean or care,
Gentleness, kindness, love and hate,
Envy, anger, are there.

Then, would you quarrels avoid
And peace and love rejoice?
Keep anger not only out of your words –
Keep it out of your voice

By Unknown

54. Angry Words, O Let Them Never

Angry words! oh, let them never
From the tongue unbridled slip;
May the heart’s best impulse ever
Check them e’er they soil the lip.

“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey the Father’s blest command:
“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey his blest command.

Love is much too pure and holy,
Friendship is too sacred far,
For a moment’s reckless folly
Thus to desolate and mar.

“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey the Father’s blest command:
“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey his blest command.

Angry words are lightly spoken;
Bitt’rest tho’ts are rashly stirred
Brightest links of life are broken,
By a single angry word.

“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey the Father’s blest command:
“Love one another,” Thus saith the Saviour,
Children, obey his blest command.

By Horatio Palmer

55. Fingers Touched, Never Held

As we finally concluded what our end is,

you grabbed me by the hand once more,

reminiscing the days where this used to be
a piece of me that symbolizes home

and it begged for you to not let go of it.

Lips that will never taste each other’s love,

eyes locked but this gaze will now be last,

words full of emotions but will never say

the three words that molded us to speak of our forgotten tomorrows

Fingers touch but never held on

to a promise of forever and always

and paths will never cross again
as we both said “good bye”

By Gabriel

56. Words

Words are things of little cost,
Quickly spoken, quickly lost;
We forget them, but they stand
Witnesses at God’s right hand,
And their testimony bear
For us, or against us, there.

Oh, how words often ours have been
Idle words, and words of sin;
Words of anger, scorn, and pride,
Or desire our faults to hide;
Envious tales, or strife unkind,
Leaving bitter thoughts behind.

Grant us, Lord, from day to day,
Strength to watch and grace to pray
May our lips, from sin set free,
Love to speak and sing of thee,
Till in heaven we learn to raise
Hymns of everlasting praise.

By John George Fleet

a woman getting emotional

57. Anger

Anger is a result of fear,

A result of heartache and tears.

Anger causes pain,

Which in the end will remain.

Hidden in the past,

It all came out last.

For waiting to long,

Would cause the suffering to go on.

And in the end,

Hopefully all the anger will be gone,

And forgiving would be granted.

To the pain, suffering, tears and fear that they started,

Forgetting won’t be easy,

But in the end you will sleep peacefully,

With the comfort of knowing.

It is better talking about the problems than any showing,

And later on, All will be said and done.

The anger and everything else will be over,

I’ll be by my maker, who will offer me a shoulder,

To cry, to scream all the hurt within

Won’t solve anything.

And in the end to rise, towards the skies,

To see the gates,

Where my Lord Jesus awaits.

By Aini Zia

58. Why Tinkerbell Quit Anger Management

I had to give up on their remedies.
They kept trying to make me less angry,
but I refuse to surrender my rage.

Because whole kingdoms have already spent
millennia trying to keep women subdued,
only to be discarded in old age.

My fury gets things done,
it has saved lives, it has made the world listen
where I could not speak, my anger has screamed.

Think Helen of Troy when they took her freedom.
Think the Rani of Jhansi leading rebellions.
Think Joan of Arc leading armies on what she dreamed.

So now I love my tinderbox heart
so easy to light up,
all it takes is half a spark.

A woman’s anger can change the world,
I know mine can and this is not a gift
I will give away.

I am small and I am angry,
it is how I channel my energy
and I like me that way.

By Nikita Gill

59. To Be Owned By Anger – Best of poems about anger

I lose my heart’s
When I allow myself
To be owned by anger.

We relinquish
To establish peace.

Do not allow
Your pride to feed
Your anger.

Once spoken,
Forever broken.

The world needs
Your smiles
And not your anger.

Anger can destroy you
Even long before
You recognize it.

Anger is ink spilt and thrown over one’s graceful heart of sweetness.

By Sri Chinmoy

60. People Say

People say, “Anger is bad.
Don’t get upset, don’t get mad.
If you get angry, it’s not good at all.
You’d better get anger under control.”

And so I did that when I was seven.
I hid my anger from the eyes of heaven.
No matter what would happened to me,
I remained peaceful for the world to see.

I thought I had no anger but now I clearly see,
that this hidden anger kept growing within me.
Each human emotion is just like a child
it needs our attention and a loving heart.

So I noticed my anger, accepted its rage,
allowed it to speak up, wrote page after page.
And I learned something special, that anger can be
a source of inspiration, and resource for me.

People say spiritual beings are what we are.
But I’m simply a human with all of my sides,
spiritual, physical, love and anger too.
Would a rainbow be a rainbow

if it only had blue?

By Lilianna Kohann

61. Love Poem To Anger

May there be space for anger in my home
May anger be always welcome to pass through

Let me keep a hearth for anger
and learn to use it like fire

Let my life be like a basin
which anger fills
and from which anger drains

Let my body be an instrument
a chamber where anger resonates
Let my throat be a channel
through which anger is sounded
and released

Let me be attuned to anger’s presence
sense when anger is at home
like a familiar companion
whose ways I know
and trust

Let me listen for anger’s voice
beneath the sweetness of the tears
muffled under the sadness, the hunger,
the need to sleep

Let me come to know anger’s face
to meet that gaze
and no longer be afraid of it

Let me open myself to anger’s touch
to be shaken through to my fingertips
charged with purpose
with that fierce protective power
Let me learn to recognize whose touch this is
and that it cannot hurt me

May I keep anger pure, in its own form
and not dilute it
and not disguise it
and not transform it into anything
more easily accepted

May anger be accepted for itself in my home
May I claim my own anger for my own
May I receive it as a gift
May I let anger teach me
May I follow where anger leads me

Let me love myself angry!

Now I open the door to anger.
Now I open the windows to anger.
Now I open the walls to anger.
Now I open the heart.

By Becky Bertha

Anger is so natural. It’s one of the three strongest human emotions: anger, love, and hate. And it’s the fine line between the other two. Love and hate are a strong feeling towards someone, and as much as you love them, a little bit of anger can turn that love into hate. So feeling angry, while natural and healthy for a little while, can damage many areas of our lives if we leave them unchecked.

You can totally find healing and happiness after a life of anger, and it may take more than poetry to get there. However, the first step is always accepting and acknowledging what’s going on, so facing those very real feelings and emotions is going to take you one step closer to true healing.

Allow yourself to feel what you feel in order to move forward! And find peace in a community of people that have felt it too.

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