Low fruit or high risk, grow through a crisis
Or cave to your vices, lose sight of what life is
It’s priceless what you can learn from what the price is
I write THIS in a state of being that feels lifeless
The MIC IS my confession booth, the truth’s timeless
Despondent but still hope that I’m known for my kindness
And guidance, and never choosing finance over science
So let me smell the roses while the sun shine on my iris
Is this some form of a cure or just a virus?
Disguises; the devils game plan to surprise us
I realize this, hence all the effort and the wryness
I’d define this as a time capsule of where my mind is

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