Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Patience, the mother of wisdom The bricks of a kingdom She and revenge work in tandem For only patient silence beckons revenge to come Patient men, some call them spies Many refer to them as watchful eyes Keeping record of the times And reading between the lines The thing about a patient man is He waits, and as he waits he watches As he watches and he learns And he keeps record of what he learns The thing about a patient man who learns Is that you never know what they know Can't comprehend the possibility of them Knowing all the wrong you've done though It's quite possible they know and will show Show whom you ask Well the world, unless you do their task For you see you can't stop the patient man from finding your well hidden plan Because in the end you're sloppy past Will always reveal itself to the patient man The patient man, knowing what he knows Could potentially rule the world if he chose Because with the right ammunition he could make his foes Comply to his wishes despite their moans and groans For if that patient mans foes don’t foes comply They may surely die For not only their sins, but also their lies For your sins will be revealed eventually, though hide them you may try Truth be told of the patient man He is not a perfect man And must in the end stand Trial for the sins he planned For a planned sin is still a sin For one to come up with the very notion To break the law and commit treason Can take some things from you in the final destination And so people of the earth be mindful For the patient man learns a handful From those who plan and spill a mouthful In the wrong place, us patient men see you as a fool To expose your sins to the very people Who could use it to stifle Any resistance to whatever rule They impose, or rat you out just because they are cruel For patients is the mother of wisdom And though the queen of boredom Births revenge in her womb And leads her enemies to their doom
0
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
The thing about a patient man
Patience, the mother of wisdom The bricks of a kingdom She and revenge work in tandem For only patient silence beckons revenge to come Patient men, some call them spies Many refer to them as watchful eyes Keeping record of the times And reading between the lines The thing about a patient man is He waits, and as he waits he watches As he watches and he learns And he keeps record of what he learns The thing about a patient man who learns Is that you never know what they know Can't comprehend the possibility of them Knowing all the wrong you've done though It's quite possible they know and will show Show whom you ask Well the world, unless you do their task For you see you can't stop the patient man from finding your well hidden plan Because in the end you're sloppy past Will always reveal itself to the patient man The patient man, knowing what he knows Could potentially rule the world if he chose Because with the right ammunition he could make his foes Comply to his wishes despite their moans and groans For if that patient mans foes don’t foes comply They may surely die For not only their sins, but also their lies For your sins will be revealed eventually, though hide them you may try Truth be told of the patient man He is not a perfect man And must in the end stand Trial for the sins he planned For a planned sin is still a sin For one to come up with the very notion To break the law and commit treason Can take some things from you in the final destination And so people of the earth be mindful For the patient man learns a handful From those who plan and spill a mouthful In the wrong place, us patient men see you as a fool To expose your sins to the very people Who could use it to stifle Any resistance to whatever rule They impose, or rat you out just because they are cruel For patients is the mother of wisdom And though the queen of boredom Births revenge in her womb And leads her enemies to their doom
Written by
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem