A professor's preparing a lesson, engrossed in his work,
He stares at a question
and rewords it to confuse the world; his face glows with a smirk.
daring, in essence, his students for the question's solution
but judging by his expression, each gave a guess of confusion-
Because his question questions questions, to assess their importance
Students face's contored, attempts to impress him were thwarted
He asks, "what is the purpose of life", and opinions bend on the savior.
And somewhere, an answer is given, by a pen touching paper
.
.
He brushes the dust off his page, needing no excuses to think
His favorite part, how pen kisses page, producing the ink
And as it kisses, it symbolizes a relationship made
Where knowledge remained long after patience would fade
a few scratches were present, from when the pen tip was dry
Showing how a closed mind went about waving sentences by
his attention applied, he began focusing imagination & wrote
"Nothing is definite. Therefore, this is a dangerous quote".
the artist in him is thriving, surviving without compensation
A strange being, concerned people would ask about his foundation
He was no socrates, but would reply philosophically,
"The purpose of life is to do what you feel is write."
they'd appeal because they didn't feel this shed a great deal of light
so while ignoring the truths they got from their physical books
He'd inquire what they thought life's about, with a quizzical look
their replies were varied and complex, his candid and plain
they fancied themselves intellectuals; he, a man with a name
So he turns back to his paper, where fortune was wrought
Considering all he has learned, he began forging a thought
and it went something like this...
A professor's preparing a lesson, engrossed in his work,
He stares at a question
and rewords it to confuse the world; his face glows with a smirk.
daring, in essence, his students for the question's solution
but judging by his expression, each gave a guess of confusion-
Because his question questions questions, to assess their importance
Students face's contored, attempts to impress him were thwarted
He asks, "what is the purpose of life", and opinions bend on the savior.
And somewhere, an answer is given, by a pen touching paper
.
.
He brushes the dust off his page, needing no excuses to think
His favorite part, how pen kisses page, producing the ink
And as it kisses, it symbolizes a relationship made
Where knowledge remained long after patience would fade
a few scratches were present, from when the pen tip was dry
Showing how a closed mind went about waving sentences by
his attention applied, he began focusing imagination & wrote
"Nothing is definite. Therefore, this is a dangerous quote".
the artist in him is thriving, surviving without compensation
A strange being, concerned people would ask about his foundation
He was no socrates, but would reply philosophically,
"The purpose of life is to do what you feel is write."
they'd appeal because they didn't feel this shed a great deal of light
so while ignoring the truths they got from their physical books
He'd inquire what they thought life's about, with a quizzical look
their replies were varied and complex, his candid and plain
they fancied themselves intellectuals; he, a man with a name
So he turns back to his paper, where fortune was wrought
Considered all he has learned, and began forging a thought
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Originally Posted by Feeble
