Why did I do this?

  Why did I do this?
What drove me to it?
  Looking down at my,
blood stained hands,
I scrub and scrub,
to no avail.
  My hands stay red,
my guilt, the evidence
of my crime.
  Why did I do this?
What drove me to it?
  Was it hate?
Oh how I hated you,
you had every-thing,
yet you still wanted more.
  You drove in your
porche, your red porche,
the same sad as your
blood.
  You had your
rolex watch,
designer clothes.
  But it was't
enough for you,
nothing ever is.
  Why did I do his?
What drove me to it?
  Was it jealousy?
Oh how I envied you,
I coveted every-thing
you owned.
  I don't think
either were
why I did it
or what drove me to it...
  It was more that
maybe, if you're not here,
then I don't feel so
different, so low or
unseaworthy.
  If you're not here
then I can't see
the issue that's
spreading through
our world.
  Now that you're
gone I don't see the issue,
so it doesn't exist.
  I look down
at the knife stained.
It is why you're gone,
the knife,
represents the end
of the issue.