Not unlike the monster for which it was named,
With debaucherous whims that divide foreign lands;
Here at the briny, gilded portal to our home now stands
A hollow woman with a torch, whose warmth
Has become faded and disheartening, and her name
Mother of Philistines. From her once guiding hand
Emerges world-wide distaste; deranged eyes ransack
The smog-filled harbor that dystopias fame.
“Keep, other lands, your progressive pomp!” shrieks she
With welded lips. “Take our tired, our poor,
Our huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Take these, the homeless, tempest-tost from me,
Lift your lamp as a guide and take them all!”

There is a difference between pretence and adaptation
Your mind constantly in motion
Emotions,
Rising up to the occasions
Changing,
Depending on different sitiations.
...
To the British I speak English
To the Polish, I speak Polish
To the rich, I’m rich
And not just in manner of speech

It's not pretence
It just makes sense
Adapting to every situation
A constant change with diverse emotions
Not just an illusion
There are established illustrations
...
To everything there are two sides
Upsides and downsides
What I call adaptation
Some call pretence
When I give an illustration
Some come to my defence
My aspiration to be better than I am
My conviction to change who I am
Has turned into deception
Leaving behind frustration.
...
The constant changes has its effect
Some might call it a defect
Just like trying to learn 10 languages at the same time
In the end all you have is half-baked knowledge not worth a dime.
A current situation
To which there is no solution
Adapt?  
Or pretend?
You decide if this is a upside,
Or a down side.
In the end, a position you must take,
“I am Half-baked.”