RAGE IS A POEM.

Rage, and peace, live in harmony.

Dear diary,

Rage is a peaceful feeling. That is what I tell myself.

I sit with that paradox in my bones. Evening curls against the windowpane, and I feel the fire under my skin—sharp, unrelenting. Not the chaos of violence, but the tension of purpose. Rage is the weight that roots me; I do not squander it.

I have been told that anger betrays us: people remember the storm, forget the gentle hands that built them. In my youth I was furious—injustices, betrayals, neglect. The world saw that fury and labeled me volatile, unpredictable. They looked past the hours I bent to healing, to tending others, to whispering comfort. They saw the roar, forgot the lullaby.

Now I channel that heat. I convert rage into craft, into something that makes others feel calm and held. My palms, once trembling with indignation, now press balm into skin. My voice, once sharp and volcanic, now teaches the quiet alchemy in oils, in roots, in dew. My rage does not cool; it transmutes.

Sometimes at midnight I wander the garden in silence, bristle with that old fire. But when I kneel to water the soil, stroke a leaf, I sense its soft surrender. The plant does not resist the rain. Its greenness is born from storms and stillness alike.

Here is what I learn: rage is a river. If dammed, it drowns. If unleashed without direction, it devastates. But if guided through channels, it powers mills, turns wheels. My rage must flow through purpose. Creation is my dam, my channel, my outlet. Let that which could consume me become the force that irrigates inner fields.

“Rage is a peaceful feeling, when it becomes something that births calm.”

Tonight, I set this vow: I will not let rage be my scandal. I will let it be my forge.