Anger

In her fit of horrid agitation, she broke the pen in half, ink seeping through the pages of the book. Her eyes blazed like blue fire, the hottest of all. She screamed, throwing the book off of the table, and pulling at her strands of hair in pure agony. Her hair ripped from her scalp, leaving huge and ugly-looking bald spots randomly throughout her head. Tears furiously spill down her cheeks, trying with fruitless effort to cool down her temper. But she is stubborn, and is no where near giving in to peace and calamity, and with a feeling of destruction, she gets up, her feet leaving holes in the floor; the walls falling from the overpowered emotion; all living things shriveling with one look at her deadly eyes. Her hair turns into snakes, and she hisses, an ugly sound, sharp and piercing. She wants to tear down the world with her sharp nails, clawing at all helpless life forms that cower under her superior form. But she wants them to fight, only for the more enjoyment she will receive when they crumble up and die. Yes, she is almighty, all mighty and deadly, much like Satan himself, who looks down as a father looks down proudly on his beautiful daughter. But she is not beautiful, her skin boils with hear, and her body is grotesque and malformed. Lay down at her feet! Pray for forgiveness! She is merciless, and will give no justice, if not only for the wicked. Crushing cities with her feet, once high buildings that kissed the sky, now turn into compound squares of metal. People scream, people die, people scream as they die. What shall they do now? Armageddon is here, and they can do nothing but collapse and die.
What shall I do? When will my anger and stubbornness overpower till the point where it crushes my soul. Will my fingers pound angrily at the keyboard, forming words from just a simple touch of a button, until I feel that I must rest, that I must lay down and let my hands rest from constant use. But I will not now, no, I will never rest, I will not rest until my stories are in the hands of every young adult in the world. Until children read my words and learn from them, or find hope in them, for everyone is hopeless, and needs inspiring to go on and live in this horrible world of today. I pray to God that he may supply me, supply me with what I need to cure this world of its horrible sickness. All diseases have a cure, even if they are not found. Will this one ever be found? I pray that it may, and I may be one of a thousand who helped to do so.