Maybe god is dead, as
Nietzsche said.
But if indeed god is dead,
I know poets killed her.

Some poets speak of beauty
And sucking all the marrow of life
Others of pain and the ironies of life
The divine comedy

Maybe poets were simply trying
To make sense of it all
As if anyone really cares.
We're not all trying
you know,
Some of us are simply looking to score.

perfect tits
perfect face
with a perfect ass
if she's pretty
she can do no wrong
she doesn't understand why
she can't find real love
she hasen't really lived

People are not good to each other
One poet said
And the sad truth is
He was right.

by reflecting
what life has to offer
they killed god
it's man that screwed things up

Why else would poets write
of marvel
of love
of pain
of death
or life
If not to force us to see
that there's no purpose,
no reason for it all.