Drunk

I try to keep politicizing out
Of poetry; it somehow can't belong
Like porter, lager, IPA, or stout
Within my mouth, it always just seems wrong.
But now my mind is filled with wondering
How lies can smoothly be received as truth
And caution seen as awful blundering
And I can see the jagged, biting tooth
Of politics prepare to bring me down.
How can I write when all I think is filled
With that which writing would but make me frown?
Or if I think it, am I so strong-willed
As to refuse to write? It all feels wrong
Like wine removed from women and from song.