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kenye Dec 2023
Bet I’m in the belly of the Beast
With this enemy ofMe
Do I fight or flight or Freeze?

Cause either way
this *******’s
coming straight At me

I was only a dark forest away
From where I needed to be

I never metaphor for anxiety
Like this one
*** Imposter syndrome

Mara’s army fires arrows
Of self-deprication
And self-doubt

And i hit the ground running exhausted
Hot and heavy heaving
To the four-on-the-floor

At the heart of the war…
She was doing yoga in the distance
And as she rose to mountain pose
I let my mind slip back into the prose
Where I fetishized her
Like some sacred ******* object

Caught in the act like Actaeon
Watching The Huntress bathing

Basilisk staring me down
Like Artemis cloaked
In her wild fury

And as she rose to mountain pose...
She held a crescent blade
To the throat of the horizon
Locking her eyes in
As she stood over Gaia’s mouth
Spinning up **** Magick

Earth the power back from the word
She channels power back from the void

From womb to tomb
To womb of the tomb

She creates
She destroys
Her body, Her weapon
Her own ******* choice
These are lyrics from a song in my rock opera. This is about delusion, abandonment, addiction, guilt, shame etc.
Don’t let them run the gamut on your soul
The mind it yells ‘imposter’
Each time I find the time to write
Never telling who I am, only telling who I am not.

Squawking, sulking in my ear
Drives the pen, the words to veer,
Drives the mind to that of Lears,
Into the sullenness of my volition.
Imposter, Imposter - not a syndrome but a title;

The title of my biography, the world’s class joke
The worlds least known, the worlds last hope.

I have a Saviour but I am my own,
Rather, I insist to be my own.

Hypnotized by the shadow, or not a shadow but a void,
A black void, not empty but falling,
Falling deep and a miss, falling, falling to my abyss -

Imposter Void Imposter, write your sweet nothingness,
I pity myself but I go on, Imposter Void Imposter -
Sympathetic, the abyss lends it’s kiss.
Imposter syndrome hitting hard
Elizabeth Kelly Nov 2021
I’m an imposter.

I’m an imposter and no one can know.

I may end up on the street in rags that once were my clothes.

Money isn’t everything,
But being poor blows

And I’m facing the clock.

What then felt like freedom now feels like a box;

Like a long leash
in a big yard
Where the gate’s always locked.
Sarah Robinson Jul 2021
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
You were happy.

And I was supposed to be happy.

My gold leaf covered hands danced through every key and every scale.

Every symphony that you threw.

I gave you all that I could give.

The golden spotlight and rusting trophies that decorate your shelf.

You always wanted more.

But I'm afraid there was nothing more I could give.

You always wanted me here so why?

What did I do to deserve your shame and hatred.

Maybe you finally realized I was only plated with gold.

But thank you.

For scraping my dreams, my mind, and every hope I had for myself growing up.

Now I know that steel only bends under unimaginable pressure.

And I can walk away from you.

At last in the deep but soothing uncertainty that lays straight ahead of me.

Only having the hope that things will cool down eventually.

Let me leave.
DanDoes Mar 2021
This weight on my back
Reminding me who I am
Failure on the move
Jason Mar 2021
Ah shiny approval,

Warm and soothing on the skin,

Absorbed like a lizard,

When one is hypervigilant.
©03/02/21 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved

Thanks for all the love HP!
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
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.
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