A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,
are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.
This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,
when we were all still rid
of conscious thought and feeling,
back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.
When do we deserve a title and when are we what we’re called?
