Lost

[Intro – close, dry vocal] Lost. Am I on my deathbed, or am I lost? A throbbing bump on my head — must’ve been hit by a rock. Face stained blood-red. Was I left here to rot? [Verse 1] I stumble through a tunnel, it’s a struggle — I slip and stumble, then trip and tumble in a puddle. I tremble as the rubble rumbles; this cave’s a muddled puzzle. I need to find some light or I’m in trouble. Stuck in a dark place like a stray space shuttle, lost like a lawyer in the middle of the jungle. Thirsty — with a funnel, I guzzle the tunnel’s puddle, then mumble some humble but subtle thoughts. Try to focus on escaping, but I’m caught. I’m trapped, I’m cold, and I’m slowly losing hope. Still concussed — wasn’t long ago I woke. The air is getting thinner; not long and I will choke. I refuse to panic, but I’m struggling to cope. How did I get here? Will I ever get out? Feel a wet tear trickle down to my mouth. I listen through my left ear ’cause the right one’s sound is out, but all I hear is my own sour sound of doubt: “Man… I’ll never get out.” [Chorus – melodic, restrained] I’m somewhere between the push and the patience, half-made plans and a head full of changes. Not where I’m going, not where I was, but the middle still moves when the future won’t budge. No map in my hand, no proof in my view, just the next honest thing I know I can do. I’m not found yet — but I’m finding out: I can move with the sour sound of doubt. [Verse 2] The tunnel grew wider; the feeling stayed the same, one foot in the old life, one foot in the change. New key in my pocket, old lock in the frame, everything moving, but nothing in place. My head says, “Chase it.” My chest says, “Wait.” One foot on the throttle, one foot on the brake. I push till pursuit puts pain in my pace, then call hiding “patience” and sit in one place. I’ve climbed till the ladder lost half of its rungs, called it ambition while emptying lungs. Waited for signs till the season was done, then blamed bad timing for things I’d not begun. Pursuit can be panic in practical clothes. Patience can hide where avoidance can grow. One says, “Keep running.” One says, “Don’t go.” Both sound like wisdom when fear takes control. So I check the intent before checking the speed: is this feeding the future or feeding a need? Do I push from belief? Do I pause to perceive? The best version of me makes the move, then proceeds. [Chorus] I’m somewhere between the push and the patience, half-made plans and a head full of changes. Not where I’m going, not where I was, but the middle still moves when the future won’t budge. No map in my hand, no proof in my view, just the next honest thing I know I can do. I’m not found yet — but I’m finding out: I can move with the sour sound of doubt. [Verse 3 – firmer, building cadence] The best version of me isn’t waiting ahead; he’s the bloke in the mess who still does what he said. When the day takes the lot and the patience is pressed, he still saves some for home and brings calm through the stress. I can measure my worth by the work when it’s quiet, by the temper I tame when my nerves start a riot, by the truth I can take without trying to fight it, by the choice to stay patient without going silent. Every setback’s a mirror; delay is a test: will I still bring my best when nobody’s impressed? Can I rest without guilt? Can I press without stress? Can I choose what is useful, not just what’s intense? No applause in the tunnel, no crowd at the turn, just a lesson in knowing what pressure has earned. Do I carry the wisdom or carry the hurt? Do I sharpen the standard or cheapen the work? I quit asking the darkness to draw me a sign, put my palm to the wall, feel a draft from the right. One step, then another, both measured and mine — I don’t need to see daylight to move toward the light. [Bridge – space, then build] Fear can dress as patience. Ego dresses as drive. Both can sound like wisdom when you’re tired inside. So I check what I’m serving, not the speed of the stride: Does this move me toward myself, or just keep me occupied? Push when it opens. Wait when it’s wise. Bring your best self to whichever applies. [Final Chorus – wider, stronger] I’m somewhere between the push and the patience, no longer ashamed of the unfinished stages. Not where I’m going, not where I was, but the middle still moves when the future won’t budge. No map in my hand — still choosing what’s true. The next honest thing is enough to move through. I’m not found yet — but I’m finding out: I don’t need the daylight to decide who walks out. [Outro – tunnel ambience returns] Lost… Maybe. But I’m not standing still. And beneath that sour sound of doubt, I can hear my own footsteps now.