Sonnet for Poetry Month #7

No woman no cry, quit your stupid tears,
Hearts break - why so particular with you?
How many more damn love-forsaken years
Will it take? What can you can you can you do?
The accursed man with the bone disease,
Was dead eight years by the age you are now
And it was a blessing, his spine had seized,
His jaw locked finally, the torment, how
Blasphemous to dwell on your desire
For the silent cruel unworthy bastard,
While thousands starve and bleed and expire
Through acts of god and man-made disasters.
Why so wretched that you have been lovelorn?
Pain comes from love, as death from being born.