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 thought.
My teeth are clenched, my mind's a mess,
My heart is pounding, I confess.

With trembling hand, I write my lines,
My ink a poison, my thoughts unrefined.
I stab the page, my thoughts a mess,
My thoughts a riot, a wild duress.

Death is my muse, my driving force,
It pushes me to write, to find my source.
To leave a legacy of words behind,
When all is done, and death is kind.

With pen in hand, with ink in vein,
I write my thoughts, of joy and pain.
A final gift, a poet's song,
To those who read, where I belong.

© The boy who raged, 1683.