Who Makes Me Think What I Think
Who makes me think what I think?
Was I born to judge the folly
of others with a satire?
Seeing their imperfections,
pitying their endless misery,
offers me that chance
to compare theirs with mine,
but rolling the dice is unfair.
Who makes me think what I think?
Are compassionate words put into me,
to gush forth as a lively brook in spring...
refreshing my stale enthusiasm,
rejecting foolishnes to let it wisdom in,
accepting changes with a new mind and will?
Who makes me think what I think?
Are these ideas and emotions daily learned by observing
human actions leading to life or death?
But very few are defined by compassion, others have
that deep hatred in them refusing to end it...
being a witness makes one aware of those differences!
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