Plan C.

Zero.
Yale said no. Zealotus denial – an overestimation of skill.
X-acto knife to the mood board. You know I’m getting too old for this.
Wishful thinking at the bottom of a glass. Xenos, the dream, the undefined.
Vouch for me. Worry for wishful execution dominates the third eye.
Understanding why I can’t get a grip – topic of the hour. Vying for recognition.
Tell me I’m capable. Untie these self-conscious knots I’ve daisy-chained.
Sell me some vision that I’ve got that stuff. Timeless somethings that make sense still.
Reasoning with the conscious is no longer an option. Seems suspect; sacrilege.
Questioning why I got the short stick. Realistically speaking, it’s only a matter of
statistics. 
People numbers. Quantum relation. Something stupid.
Ostensibly I should be reasonable but that’s
not for me when I’ve got the
motivation for something stirring in my 
love-sick lonely lethargic state of mind. Not mine.
knowing the path forward is half the battle. Lies. I
just want to know where I belong.
I just want to know how to find meaning in this life of
half truths and half lies.
Given the 
frustrations on my part,
every other plan I had is
done for.
C is for Cult –
better than Yale,
and for a price of only my enthusiastic youth.