The Real Me?

I’m opposed to getting to know the real me. Am I supposed to say or ask these life shattering utterances? The real fear I have is what I’ll uncover under the subconscious rubble of my dreams. What's down there? I wonder if I'll find that Hulk Hogan doll I lost all those years ago. What is my dream? Probably the millionth time I stuck my bewildered head in the sand over that question. Do I even have one worth examining? Examining? Like I'm a surgeon of thought. More like a flunkie who ran off with the helpless dead fish we were about to fillet. Worth leading? Ask any of my friends. I'd be a mix between General Custer and Abe Lincoln. Well liked, but they both never had a chance. I cannot even fathom the vibration of happiness. I’m not saying I haven’t laughed or been in “love,” but where does true happiness come from? Where does it sleep? Where does it dwell? To whom does it gravitate toward? Why is it immune to me? Although I scare easily some would say I’m horror flick. Less Jason, more Freddy. The truth is, I'm an underestimating talent too close to the fire. It hasn't killed me yet, but I’m almost unrecognizable.