Pain flowing
Like ink through water
Down my arm like
A needling supplicant
Awake for hours
And only the words
Hold it at bay
I save my opinions of some
Walled gardens
Made of words
Some are tributes
Rendered in kindness
Others get barren, dead
Crime scenes
Which is which,
Well, it depends
On how well you
Treated the gardener
Before I picked up my tools
And began to write
But even those
Who want my scorn
Seldom get it
Because they receive instead
The gift of my blithe indifference
Not even willing to draw a sickened breath
To wish harm
Upon them.
MB Blissett 
Oh man oh man! Sooo good!! I really like this one.
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Thank you so much for your kind words. This was a tough one to write about.
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Well it turned out very good.
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