poems for the young at heart

insert title here:

what's the point, anyway?
this whole life thing.
i guess most don't question it.
why we get up
and do generally the same thing
every day:
eat, work, eat again, sleep, repeat.
what's the point, anyway,
especially without love?
(at least i'm told)
people describe it as a rush
of many things:
color, sound, smell,
and all kinds of emotions.
i wouldn't know,
i don't believe in love.
so what's the point, anyway,
waking up every single day
only hoping
to die?