Dead Inspiration

This one goes out to all of those who hate writing.
To all those who feel mental anguish at the thought of putting words on a piece of effing paper.
To the people who play depressing songs, to try to write about their misfortunes;
Because writing poetry will never be effing happy.

It won't be sitting on a dock holding hands,
A marriage that lasted until death did them part,
Flower picking, song serenading, gift giving,
Smiles.
It will be about pain.
Because poetry will never be effing happy.

It'll be about how much I hate life,
how I feel like I don't deserve to live and
how many lives I've ruined by taking my first breath into this cruel God forsaken hell hole.

How I don't feel at home anywhere.
It'll be about how I don't belong.
How I took away her happiness, when she first noticed she was late.

And how even though she says she doesn't regret it,
I know she does sometimes.
How I know she misses her friends, parents, life, and language.
And it's entirely my fault.

How I took away her happiness.
Which should be the equivalent of taking a life,
A crime punishable by death.
Because poetry will never be effing happy.

And I don't care what you, you, or you say.
It'll be about how I am the burden that no one wants to acknowledge.

This one goes out to the inspiration that was murdered intentionally.
The inspiration that was shoved away and put away just to avoid the pain.
Because poetry will never be effing happy.

This one goes out to the English teacher who brought it all back.
Cheers to you.
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This one is meant to be read in a slam poem kind of fashion, even though it is rather short for slam.