I so often
Convince my thoughts
That I lose my soul
Among the unknowing
And empty, drifting space
Of whatever it means
To be alive
Because I like the
"Adventure" of it,

But only here,
In the murmuring
Hum of a bedside
Lamp glowing against
The ache of
So-late-it's-early,

Only now,
From behind the safety of
My flimsy bedsheets
Covered in lint
Will I admit

I don't know what I'm doing.

And I'm t͢e͢r͢r͢i͢f͢i͢e͢d͢
     I'm doing it all wrong.