A poem that wont save any of us

Years now since I dug up Juliets bones
and brought them to the altar
of the patron saint of broken hearted lovers

Years I've spent singing the razor blade
and kerosene blues

And still my wounds bleed
the cut refuses to heal
has become infected

I once drank Morrisons blood
from a cup made of part
of Cobains shotgun scattered skull

And still I don't know who God is
only who he isn't

Even after all these fucking years
I've found no truth
no great poem that will save

a single
fucking
person