What must be done, may not be warranted

 In the superfluous surge of paranoia, when you string words to poetry, is nothing sacred anymore?
Does your hand not tremble? does your mind not dissuade? Why must your heart be on a sleeve?
It isn’t unlike a heart to not crumble and crash, how quickly does one become so callous and forget?
When the pain hits home, then why do they write about who caused the hurt and not about the pain?

To write on the ones that have caused such grievous hurt is crude, worse a disservice to love itself
For they don’t care, if they did you wouldn’t have the untamed need to write about them not caring
So, when the whiskey hits you like a ton of bricks, steady your hand, raise it to fill yourself one more
Do not write about them that have left you buried alive, or left you so far away from the shore

In the matters of poetry, do what you must to resolve your soul’s aching pain but know this for sure
Your words may weigh heavy, your tears may blur the pages it is written on, but it falls on deaf ears
So, when you choose to write of the void and absolute absence of those that you have lost 
Write about your heart and how it bleeds, but like me never ever write about the ones you love