We Poets

We poets, not many of us left, are left to starve while they give all the means of life to footballers and pop stars and other soulless idiots.
All the energy, all the value, and all the time, given away for free to atrocious, selfish, privileged, witless bastards, who want to reach "the top", whatever that is. When you get there, you realise it's nothing. A hollow wind echoing in an empty chamber, a diamond made out of glass, a paper tiger with no teeth, a Hollywood western saloon with a blank wall behind it.
People don't go mad you know. Something happens to them. A thing called life. That's all. They aren't mad, or sad, or bad. They've just lived, that's all. And it's enough to fucking break your heart, life, to break it.
The poet is the human paradigm. In him is seen all, all the failures of homo sapiens, all the failures and all the hopes, and all the weakness, and I'll tell you the insight he has gained therein: Love is important. That's all. He thinks it might even be the meaning of life.
Whenever I wake up, I am infinitely disgusted and disappointed to find myself still in existence.
A sad story, bittersweet.  The last act of the oldest human drama; heartbreak. I've written the same lines over and over, and still I can write no other. I've written, in my heart's blood, my last words, a farewell to mother earth, who loved me imperfectly. (Good idea for a poem).