A heart too soft to support such a tired man

Why must I be in utter shambles before I write anything?
Why does one have to feel self hatred before creativity strikes?
Is it fair to use that pain as a sorry excuse for creativity?
Why must I suffer this unbearable lonliness alone?
Why is the heart so soft that something as frivolous as this can damage it?
Is it my destiny to be so sad the rest of my life?
Why do I detest the bitter taste of gin now?
Why does it remain as the only thing that will calm my pulse?
Is it clear that I cannot breath?
I played my hand and she turned, screamed and pushed me away.
It is not me, is it?