Imposter Syndrome

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Peer into the entryway of one's soul.
Dishonesty can be detected in simplistic ways.
What comes forth will never match what rests beneath.

The Mother Teresa must be a Satan,
for alienation comes from self-absorption.
You hold umbrellas over heads when floods come in,
but who is nearby to be your safety raft?
You please others out of fear of losing them,
yet absence of you does not nauseate their stomachs.
Smiles mask detachment from life inside the dark hole labeled as the mind.


The Hercules must be a Daisy Buchanan,
for strength is the creation of prior destruction.
You use deception as your ability to cope,
do they see your inability to take another breath?
You open arms to all that struggle,
but they purposely handcuff their own.
Muscle conceals the thinness of the skin.


The Scrooge must be a Hamlet,
for intimidation is the outcome of rejection.
Your projection of negativity drives all away,
but do they, themselves, understand the bricks first thrown by them?
While your heart is assumed unmistakably transparent,
it has truly been torn artery by artery and left imprisoned in bones.
Expressions of aggression protect nonexistent love for the person in the mirror.

The Einstein must be a Neville Longbottom,
for superiors flee from failure.
Your aspiration for intelligence comes with a price,
but do they ponder stress’ laughter at your sleepless nights?
A ninety-nine percent catches flies as returned to the righteous possessor,
but they cannot see your rosy cheeks turn pale when you are doubted.
Perfection is an illusion veiling faltering pride.


The Jane Eyre must be a Miss Havisham,
for positivity is expressed to save one from depression.
Encouraging words forever sing into darkness,
but have they felt the rough patches, dents, or crevasses where blade met your skin? 
Preacher of glowing tomorrows,
oh how they will be shocked to hear you did not make it to the next hour.
Laughter shields haunting hopes of self inflicted eternal silence.

The Aphrodite must be a Holden Caulfield,
for some of the prettiest flowers are the first to wilt.
Eyes that have been laid will never wander,
yet do they see your discomfort of being in the spotlight?
Perfection of posture which never breaks in presence,
only they do not witness the lone hours where faux confidence shudders.
Beauty is the shelter of ugly souls.


Time of hiding deteriorates the heart,
breeding an illness of which cannot be left untreated.
Shall there be an immaculate cure to our frauds?
Futility of the masks plastered on society at last!
Exposed!
Cloaking an emotion’s identity is not an antidote,
only a treatment, just as the mixture of blue quiets red by appearing purple.
Normality is treated as a disease, so
the true cancer: fear of authenticity.






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