Why must mere existence drive a person to feel
That they must crush themselves down
To be small, and appeal
To the labyrinth of minds and beautiful thinkers,
Who inhabit this globe, and power its blinkers?
I feel more weight in the benign
Than I should for the existential,
Requiring myself to dream up a credential
For each small conversation, or to inhabit a thought.
From all of these worries, I feel I may rot.
What will it take for the load to not sit
On my shoulders, and poke into every last bit
Of my spine, and my flesh; all that my nerves may feel,
And crush me to the ground,
Shrinking me, to appeal?
Rose Lepin's Map of Madness 