| The Man Who Was Profound |
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| He sat at his desk scribbling away, Writing of hopes and dreams; Describing his thoughts and the psyches of others, Painstakingly analyzing the inner workings of the world. He came up with marvelous works. His theses were eloquent and articulate. His words flowed together with one another More perfectly than the flow of the most beautiful river. His writings left everyone emotionally frozen, Left in amazement and overtaken by awe. He wrote philosophy and theory, He wrote with his heart and soul, He convinced himself that he was wise and profound, That he had a unique gift. Some people think differently- They have the ability to enlighten and influence the world. With pride, he considered himself among them. Until one grim day, He was reading his remarkable theories aloud, When suddenly a painful realization overcame him. He sat silently, immobilized by the pain of his truth. He cried the warmest of tears and hated himself More than he had ever deduced possible. He was not wise. He had nothing profound to say. He coated his blatant, weak words with magnificent garments: The pleasing words and phrases which adorned their meanings in perfection. He had blinded the world to his stupidity through manipulation. He will never be profound, He will never be intellectual or influential. He will merely garnish those who will accomplish what he cannot. And he will go through life wanting more. He will go through life in disappointment. Until the day that he realizes He will never find his own wisdom profound If he compares his wisdom to the wisdom of the world. On that day, he will set his own standards And strive to please himself alone. And one day, he will write something truly profound. |