My poetry has, at least in the past decade and a half (since I quit drinking), been a "reaching inside" to pull out emotional realities ... and those realities have been very dark, ugly, and anguished. I assume that this was NOT different back in my "drinking days", as one would suppose that my consuming a litre or so of gin a day was a symptom of extremely unhappy inner states!
The question comes up "Have I ever been happy?" ... and I have to answer "I don't think so." ... It's not that I'm outwardly "Mr. Morbid" (frankly, I'd assume that most folks who know me would be surprised at reading my poetry), but there is a deeply entrenched aching that NOTHING seems to be able to touch, a center point which is a naked, seething abyss of alienation, that no amount of "good things" can fill.
And, of course, when I look at this stuff, I wonder why the hell I bother even trying to fight.