Uncomfortable With Themselves

I am a slave to spontaneity. I can not see myself, As a keeper of 'stats'. And one who massages personalities, Of those who have reached heights... With expectations to be treated, As if they keep secrets from Mother Nature. You know the kind! The ones who rattle off résumés of folks, To entitle themselves to feel important. And prefer to hobnob and mingle with those, Of equal insecurities. With a tolerance to pretend... Others are the ones who have them. I am a slave to spontaneity. Anything premeditated... Seems such a waste to what being 'real' is! And some folks are so, Uncomfortable with themselves. Keeping that proper etiquette and home training appeal, As boring as their conversations. 'Excuse me. I have some paint to go home to watch dry. How I let that escape me? I have no idea. But please... Please continue without me.'