In we prance, kingly versions of ourselves.
Nothing to dwell upon besides self,
I am frightened—
Comfortable in the awkward sociality.

I fear the end.
Yet, the start is always excruciating.
Once over the climb toward conversation,
The continuation is admired

This cycle does nothing.
The affluent believe they are better,
The others place great trust in “humility,” but lack humbleness.
These are the two groups of which we do not belong

By the end, there I hang,
Wishing to be forgotten by all instead of many.
Consumed by my own worries
No better than the ones I am leaving.