wisdoms.txt

Wisdom knocks on your door, but you're clearly never home.
Some minds are fertile ground; yours is paved stone.
Your opinion is the feather that fails to tip the scale.
You aim for the stars but trip over the doorstep.
Your words are many, but the basket they fill holds only wind.
Even the scarecrow serves a purpose in its field.
You follow logic like a lost dog chasing its tail.
Some sparks ignite a fire; yours barely disturbs the ash.
You wait for the tide to turn while standing in the desert.
Your depth is that of a puddle after a brief shower.
You are the echo that thinks it's the voice.
The sundial moves faster than your understanding.
Your efforts are like writing names in the sand before high tide.
You are the footnote nobody bothers to read.
You mistake the cage door for an open window.
Your brilliance is like a candle flame in a hurricane.
Listening to you is like waiting for rain in a drought – pointless and disappointing.
You carry confidence like a stolen coat – ill-fitting and obviously not yours.
Some trees bear fruit; you just cast a meager shadow.
You possess the sharp wit of a hammer.