Blind Faith

I miss the days when
solutions were never 
more than a sleep and 
calm head away.

I would create a cocoon,
curl myself tightly,
wrapped in an artist’s melody,
warm beneath my favorite quilt;

close my eyes to this reality
in favor of my own,
safe in the knowledge that 
I would awake to answers.

What happened to those days?
Why did they end? 
And when?

Did my problems outgrow
the patchwork layered over me?
Did I run out of refrains
to match my scene?

Is it an inevitability 
that complications
are picked up with each 
trip around the sun?

Or did I do it to myself?

Breaking my own heart,
giving it to the wrong people,
along with the magic of
youth’s blind faith in self.