What drives the poet's pen to write?
What drives his hand, with all its might?
It's not the love of life that's pure,
It's hatred's blade, it's death's allure.

The poet's words, his ink's his bane,
A poison coursing through his veins.
And so my pen is heavy in my hand,
I try to control its command.

But hatred's force is hard to stop,
It seeps into my every...