Some say love is the purpose

But I know that ain't true

Cause love may be life

But life isn't love

These aren't random words

Quite some time they have brewed

To come to the conclusion that we are all screwed

Companionship, union, conjoinment

Just an excuse for survival, and now for enjoyment

The merger may give your existence an increment

It may lead to a state of contentment

But does it add meaning? No it doesn't. 

Perhaps it is the love of the poems

That keeps me going

Or perhaps it isn't

A strange sort of love it is

Just to keep writing, never to be listened

What is it that I am trying to say?

Is life's game just a suspension, till death's play?

It seems like it, or maybe its just clay

To be molded into whatever shape you may

Its your life, its your way

But the true purpose, I search for that ray

Through all these poems I foray

Into the endless expanse of the mind

The aimless thought-array

To find the purpose, the meaning

The chances are slim and gray

But if I find it, here it would lay