I think I write with hate.

There's no sunshine, or flowering fields when I'm create using words.

I'm nobody and you are all.

Still nothing moves me from my four walls.

There's no haven, all is doomed.

This moment and the next will be over to soon.

So when I write, my words are bold.

They curse and rhyme, but there's no a good time to read my gripe.

For my writes bear no light, no blue skies, no starry night's.

I must feel that awful hate in order to be talented...

In order to create.

In order to write.