My patience is wearing thin,
As is my confidence.
But what to confide?
A fear, an insecurity. A wish.

To confide one's self to another,
To be seen wholly,
Faults and follies
Amidst one's triumphs.

If confidence reigned supreme,
I'd surely fail among the floundering.
Patience, though a virtue,
Does not come quick.

To be patient or confident,
Neither becomes me.
I walk the shadows,
My head bent in social submission.