tiny broken pieces and a faint memory of you

me-seventy one

pain, anger, revenge, and envy.
that's all me
that without those,
I will never be able to write poetry

it's a bittersweet thing,
where the pen takes your breath away
but everytime you realize,
that the world is beauty,
there's no reason left for me

the ink will hate me
and remnants of painful memories would leave me
call me selfish if you will
but that's the reason I exist,
don't ask me why,
but without pain,
I'll soon die.