Pandora's Box Poem by Timothy Long

Misery or greed, mad or sad, happy or glad, married to after thoughts are a help, neither is being related to the past, the future lies like a repeated present, why is after thought none less tent, is that all of life? No regret is any worth mentioning, the box it seems as small as can be is the brain, painful why so the ignorance or fogginess all included, is it real? A figure of some they say, nothing of good comes from it anyways, all of life's problems come from this muscle, a book of limits that humanity can't reach, a movement if you will, when can that potential grow? Some things never satisfy which is why they drink from the unholy frail, open it many dared, a brain fried can't be repaired, escape while able to do so, no intellectual can, only the stupid are free, never losing, that argument isn't real, once needed a period of Morpheus and morality. Define what you can't it be soon, Pandora's Box born again.