It's difficult being angry. Logic very easily picks anger apart, and makes you see how ineffective it is, and points out all the little things that make the anger silly. Justified, righteous anger is something terrible, an unstoppable force. But anger is very, very seldom justified and righteous. Nobody is innocent, nobody is perfect. So anger melts away and hides in a shadowy corner, beaten like a dog for its rashness, with the many lessons of compassion and respect and understanding wielded as weapons leaving deep, ugly scars on its skin. There it waits, rests. Whispers simple syllables dripping of acid, watching with revenge-hungry eyes. And what was once a simple dog with a love for chasing rabbits, becomes a deformed monster with milky-white eyes, greatly enjoying the hunt, the strike, the kill. Into darkness, becoming darkness.
Can I speak of anger? Can I express anger? Can I make poems of anger? No. Do not let the beast out of its cage, compassion says to me. Do not let it bury its claws in you, respect advices. Do not trust it with anything, least of all your passion, says logic, gleefully snapping the whip of understanding. Do not let others see it. Do not let others hear of it. For that which is your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness. It has never been more true than in this case.
Leave it there, in the shadows. When the time comes that you really need it, it will strike down your foes with razor sharp claws and let you stare at them with its eyes, its strength infecting your blood. And it will be justified, it will be righteous, and it will be unstoppable.