Ambition is a skywards-rising rope
Of wishful thinking spawned in the the abyss;
A vicious twist invigorates or chokes
Precociousness that sprints on withered limbs.
Consider it a medicine or poison,
Distinction is determined by the dose;
Utopia recedes on the horizon,
continued chase requires that it seem close.
But picture the unlucky poet Plath,
Estranged and strangled by her disp'rate goals;
Ambition's good to have, but better halved,
Salubrious reduced to lower scope.
Perfection's a perverted urban myth.
For inner peace, don't seek eternal bliss.
(There, a sonnet. It was composed as an exercise so it seems appropriate material for an initial post. This preliminary post is primarily to familiarize myself with the platform.)
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