Fuck you Socrates

Love is time
you promise to something.
As is passion,
which used to mean
“creates pain” in German.
Fuck you Socrates
you bankrupt communist;
didn’t eat long enough
with the peasant
and their pigs
not to question
what a blind mind sees.
On this equation
love equal to promised seconds,
by extension
I can anchor all the others.
Goal, Determination, effort,
and autonomy –
your effect on
the Realm of reality
which has one realm of lived truth,
that got acted out on the plain,
and everyone knows
it is hard if you try
to formulate
with imperfect sounds
what your faulty eyes saw,
trying to recall a removed moment
from the one you are currently residing in.
I still can
hang
a whole fuckin’ system
for the individual and the masses
onto my definition for love
and turn
the tables on your never ending game of thought.
It is only encasing is
what are you willing to do?
For how long and for
what reward?
It is flexibel,
irreparabel through its small parts,
it updates itself over time.
It is infallible straight ahead.
And it has a place
and acts as fundament
for all the other concepts
you can question.
No wonder, Socrates
you fool wouldn’t stop talking,
even if I hung words onto time,
while you rob mine,
with your unending rain of what and why.
The clouds in your eyes
spit Arsen,
when I ask,
what is love for you, Socrates?
Is it just going around
and questioning the product
without respecting the factors?
Why did your mind
withdraw from reality?
Who hurt you?
Is this the experience
you craved for?
I promise I will sit and answer all
your question,
let you sink all your love into wisdom.
But answer me this,
Socrates:
If love isn’t time you promised to something,
why are YOU doing this?