The people with the most money aren't happy

Just ask me.

I've been one of them.

Been next to them.

Seen the whole world want to have sex with them.

Then talk shit about 'em.

Then doubt 'em.

Then be disappointed by them because they aren't perfect.

It ain't worth it.

I know girls who only want to marry billionaires,

they're still single.

And they're counting all their options on their fingers.

Shallow in the shadows as they linger,

immaculately dressed and self-obsessed,

worried that they're worthless.

The people with the most money aren't happy.

We want more.

How do you think we got here?

We earned it,

sacrificing life as fuel

we burned it.

Or we inherited it at birth

and don't feel we deserve it.

We're nervous.

That all our friends around us

think we're really worthless.

And the world doesn't see me as a person,

but a business,

a way to sell some shit quick

and never ask forgiveness.

I got lucky once,

now how can I repeat it?

I need it. I see it. I read it.

But I hear the lawyers on the partner tracks

want their lives back.

They want to rise fast,

Then never see their wives fast.

And look up to a boss

Who has already lost it all,

but who can sign a bill

no matter what the cost at all,

the cost to ball.

The CEO's owe money to the VC's,

but wish they didn't,

so they could focus on their mission,

and try to listen to their employees

explain their problems.

That doesn't ever stop,

they often can't solve them.

The pretend shininess on the outside?

You can buy that.

You can practice that.

You can even fool yourself that

the shell isn't hollow

you can swallow

back your fears.

And never face what's behind that face in the mirror.

The basement is here.

The place where you sweat and clean beneath the sheen.

The place where you earn your self worth.