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.