All I know is a poets sorrow.
Happiness I just cannot borrow.
I must strive for a better morrow.
Is it all lost in my vanity?
Insane is my type of sanity.
It’s the being of my humanity.
Intelligence must equal crazy.
There ideals of me are real hazy.
Minus knowledge will keep them lazy.
Not even Socrates knew the truth.
Neither Do I, or the old, or the youth.
Einstein was an intelligent sleuth.
We all run down this deep rabbit hole.
We chase the trail, seeking for our role.
It never gives up the answers though.
It’s the more you learn the less you know.
But that is life, you reap what you sow.
It must be true, we learn and we grow.
Philosophy builds my perspective.
Search for answers like a detective.
But both routes of truth are objective.
So only my ignorance is true.
The answer to real is up to you.
A poet’s sorrow is all I knew.
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