This is a log of most of the poetry I've written.

There is a man
He is running from something

He understands not
What he is running from
Every time it comes farther
Only further he runs

He percieves not
The time he has ran
The time traveled matters to him
Just as much as distance

He never can see what he is running from
He may never have been running at all
This he can never know
As he runs eternally in limbo

Too fast
To see his surroundings
To know what he runs from
To know that he runs
To know that he must stop.

Anyone can be involved in any logical discussion, experience isn't necessary in debates of pure fact,
but in places where the fact is hidden under layers of experience or obscured through a endless series of abstractions,
the "anyones" become monkeys on a typewriter, constantly trying to break through the logic which is not explicitely layed out.
they try every combination already tried, forge the entirety of the population of memes who destroy the foundation being argued upon,
Alas, these are monkeys who are probably wasting their time, as explaining the logic to how we got here will outlive the length that the conversation is interesting for.

I fear that I become a monkey sometimes.

There once was a machine,
and the machine did go,
and go did the machine—
sans ebb, sans flow.

It gave them everything they need;
they only live with the machine.
There's nothing left for those who leave,
There's nothing left for those who dream.

And then one day,
it became very hot...
Someone left the machine!
Someone finally took their shot!

But for him, it was too late,
and for the rest, it sealed their fate,
as there is no where     left    to        hop
when   the         machine
        
                                       slowly
        

        

        
                                                               stops.
        

My two axioms—
blissfully eccentric; and,
brutally aware.