My mind is made of fruit,
Which I think is cute.
If I think about my memories,
They’re very clearly small cherries.
Bloom and wither, going away,
New ones come no matter what I say.
Jokes are clementines, small and sweet,
Taking lots of place, not piled too neat.
Friends are bananas, keeping me alive,
They ensure I cannot but thrive.
When I’m confused all this makes a salad,
As a proper meal, that’s not valid.
If I get stressed, they become juice,
Making me unbalanced like something was loose.
If I get depressed, they become dried,
Still a hint of taste, but most of it’s died.
My mind is fruit if seen like this,
Although I’m sure there’s something amiss.