Space, in Chains

I'm reading a poetry book and it feels like a horror depressing novel.

Every single page is about the death of infants, animals and humans, or pure violence:

“I have stood here before.
Just this morning
I reached into the dark if the dishwasher
and stabbed my hand with a kitchen knife.”
- extract from “View from the glass”

“Look! I bear into this room a platter piled high with the rage my mother felt toward my father! Yes, it's diamonds now.
- extract from “Look”

“Riddle” is the only poem that I enjoyed.