For you, jerk face

Your work is so hostile and full of rage
He told me
Don't you ever write about beautiful things?
About spring flowers or blossoming lovers?
Glittering stars or a calm river?

I have written about those things before.
I know what it is like to speak of sweetness.
But in my present state I am the bitter lemon, a serrated knife.

My eyes are wide open
I cannot write of beauty
Until I can make everyone
Aware of the filth