The Thinker

Run, run as fast as you can.
Race with time, till life’s tragic end.
But what of the thinker? Like a turtle he walks,
Observing as others tick by with clock.

Suppressed by the glory that with busyness comes,
He hides in the shadows, He patiently analyzes.
His cynical mind laughs at the absurdity,
The pointless interactions leave him puzzled with uncertainty.

He has something to offer, but little to gain.
His mind is his muse, his call to fame.
So the thinker will sit and ponder and write,
While the others run quickly into their own plight.

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A poem for all the introverted, introspects. A poem for the people who would rather sit at home reading, writing and thinking. A poem for me.