Lost

Every morning, at 3, give or take, those damn ghosties tickle me awake, and I wander through my psyche, dragging my dreams, and my plans, and my mental blue prints
tucked under my arm like a life jacket that I know will save me.

My psyche is a beautiful old house, with tons of doors, and windows, and stairs. So full of brightly colored choices and opportunities, it bubbles over,
and suddenly I know my focus has left the building, perhaps forever.

Visions are always colored in magic marker, because they are bright and permanent.
Idea's are always colored in pastel, so I can change them and blur their edges.
When the magic marker bleeds through the pastels to the idea, it becomes a vision.

I suspect that no one I've ever met really knew shit
mostly because they didn't know enough to know how little they knew
but that didn't deter most, because then they just lowered the curve.

Therefore; I'll not look to others as a benchmark for what direction is mine.
I'll no longer bend to fit their curve and help defend their broken hearts
I'll follow my own corridors, peeking inside each door, until I find my own way home.