Nothing that depressing

Nothing that saddening

Nothing that horrid

And not so many terrors

Have inflicted my soul

I've been pretty lucky
to live like this

To have friends like these

So why do I still write poems

Of dread

Of fright

And panic

Of alarm

Of disgust

And shock


When I live an almost normal life

Only one person hurts me

Only one man

Do I write of these horrors?


Do I crave for evil?

Do I want hurting and suffering?

What's wrong?

With me