Do not write to me
of the white blossom tree
when you never look up to see
the bright daylight
that reflects off
the bleached white petals.
Do not write to me
of the horrors of war.
Do not explore
the picture you
place before
the face you hate
much more,
when you have
never ever even
gone to war.
Do not write to me
of love and love lost
when you refuse
to yield to the blues
of loving someone
who will never love you
or that you will eventually lose.
Do not write to me
of humanity
when you seclude yourself
in a shaded corner,
sitting in cemeteries,
dreaming of heroes,
trolls, and beautiful fairies
while life goes on
without your participation.
Do not write to me.
Go out and live
to be free,
expressing only the things
that you live through and see
because every other poem
is just a fiction,
a projection
of the emotions
as you think they are
or believe they should be
not necessarily partially punctuated
stanzas of reality.