Whoa, Whoa, Whoa! The mind’s high strung
Bee stung, you might even say,
But hey, I didn’t ask for easy. I asked for far flung
And the recesses of God’s factory obliged
Dust was blown off a relic hidden deep in a trove
A trove marked, “A conflicted mind”
And from thereon began my toil, my grind
What do I want to be? an artist? a writer? a scientist?
I don’t even know how I have come so far with knowing so little
It seems that everything in this glasshouse is brittle
Take step with care, tread ever so lightly
For the wares of this sanctum are pristine yet fragile
The world is in need for someone quick on his feet, someone agile
There’s no place for legends of yesterday, tellers of tales and weavers of fiction
Like I said, in my mind, there’s so much friction
That each moment brings me closer to my demise, my extinction
What endeavors are left that are worthy of my energy and time?
Everything that I do, society shuns it as if it were a crime
Morbid, mundane, maleficent, maliceful and maddened
My sanctum sanctorum, my solitude is left saddened
I am rendered a mind transfixed
Unhinged, unhelpable, hapless and crucifixed.