Go on and write, if write you must.
But you're words are hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.
Talk of today, of yesterday, of tomorrow.
Talk of frailty, of failure, of innocence and lust.  
They are all hollow,
and not one will I ever begin to trust.

Go on and write, if writing will heal.
But you're words are whispers,
and not one can I begin to feel,
breathing down my ears and standing my hairs.
They are hollow, pitiful, and unreal.  
Go on and write, and see if I ******* care.