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i'm a swindler,
a trickster,
a not-so-great pretender.
i live my life as an imposter
among the scholars that call themselves
my colleagues,
what achievements? pure luck
what success? just timing
was my effort ever as
as it could've, should've been?
an ode to the imposter syndrome that keeps me crippled, i hate it here
Miles Graves Jul 4
a stranger wears my face, but with less decay;
in the distance, hidden in the summer’s maize
I see an imposter that answers to my name,
and in rapture he watches as the yellow rots away.
A decade ago, I recall the same.

in the distance, a stranger who seems closer today -
idly, I wonder why I’m walking his way.
Juno Apr 17
These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.

I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.

I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.

Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.
DanDoes Mar 30
This weight on my back
Reminding me who I am
Failure on the move
Victoria Mar 30
The sheep in wolf's clothing,
The fraud the fake-
Does that bundle of grey fur,
Hide the mistakes you make?

Sing of sleep little sheep,
Or are you still awake?
Do those howls and growls
leave you too frightened to shake?

You've got them convinced,
So let's hope for your sake,
That they'll never realize,
And that you'll catch a break
persephone Nov 2020
Like a monster
wearing my own skin,
I question yet again
whether the cries I upend
are signs of intelligence or
the incoherent utterances
of an imposter begging
to be let in.
Is this about bipolar or imposter syndrome or both idk but the Wendigo legend always creeps me out to think about
Samara Nov 2020
daughters of pageant queens
like them you

i come from a broken gallery
on display for
casper Nov 2020
My writing will never be nice.
It will never have rhyme or reason or hold iambic pentameter.
It is not typewritten on aged paper bought from a small bookstore, carried home hurriedly under a black coat in a downpour.
My experiences are not universal,
on the contrary,
they are painfully singular stories.
My writing will never be featured in a book,
or on the front page of a trusted source,
it will be buried away in a desk,
dormant with the other scraps of musings once cherished.
I am not one like Keats, Byron, Frost, Dickinson, or Poe,
I, for all intents and purposes, am a fawn lost in the forest,
admiring the sights and sounds around me,
listening to those wise ones who can describe them in such perfect tone.
It would be fair to say that I am not even a poet,
I am simply a brain that thinks,
A body that moves,
And a soul that feels that very special something.
Dated for the day it was written.
mark soltero Nov 2020
i  am not a man
***** made at best with a lack of quality control
i cry shamefully
waiting for the day
to find that my heart has officially grown cold
like all the good boys
that receive their praise
what id give not to ask
but to only receive
just for one moment
i want to feel
what it feels like to be treated like necessity
and not a burden
i long for everything that will never be mine
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