We poets watch the world our eye
    glued to a microscope. We pick it
    apart and we lecture in slow motion.
    We examine nerve ends as blood explodes
    when your soul mate breaks your heart.
    We've felt your pain and suffer with you.
    We are undertakers dressed as clowns.
    We are clowns who bury your dead
in irony. They never looked so good?
Poets always die misunderstood.