Introverts have it easy
Their mind does not wander,
At least not past the bounds of comfort,
Of their own means.
I crave attention and people
Yet I crave sanity, and comfortability.
But my comfort lies in the hands
Of the fickle, shaky, crumbling down
Til my ashes are wet with an inability
For rebirth like the phoenix.
Sometimes I want to be alone with no interaction
But then I tire of lonesomeness.
I want it all, but someone to share it with.
My name heard, taught after my death.
I hate that concern, death is release
From the world not a constant
Marveling at false accomplishments.
Such a weird wish too, to be known
After death it's like predestination, we'll
Never know it to be true because
You're dead when you learn the truth.
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