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.