Today I lie, on my bed all alone,
there is no one to talk to I cannot phone,
the silence, it maddens me, the boredom as well,
slowly will kill me its not good, I can tell,
the page it mocks me, words I type,
seem of a different language that someday I might,
be able to decipher, but for now I wait,
continuing this subject, the one I have grown to hate,
If the words are my own, why can't I read,
them, as they would be the most useful to me?
so I stare at this screen, the words dance through my head,
to quickly, it seems they will be unlikely to embed,
Sartre, Bagginai, Nietzsche and Kant,
are the ones on which I am forced to rant,
there is one thing now that seems easy to get,
their atheism must be right, as god has got to be dead.
