It's awful that pain is my muse
Angst is who I am when I write
It brings me a multitude of words
Coloring it into a story of sorts that I can escape
And deal with things at the same time
It's a world I draw myself into like some drunk stupor
It's not reality and I might regret it the next day
But it's a hell lot healthier escape
Why do I feed on misery?
I don't want it but at the same time it gives me a lot
It makes me feel I'm alive and have something
Worthy to write about
Is that why there are so few poems detailing happiness?
My muse…pain, you kill me and bring me to life