Imposter Syndrome.

A part of me feels like this is a fever dream

Like everything is happening, passing me by,

Surreal, a pebble among many, placed firmly,

Still, despite the flow of sensations.

I’ve since found an approximation of peace, what it means to me,

Transient — elusive — within reach, on a good day. And then I wake up.

I materialize my castle in the realm of darkness and light

But I keep my co-ordinates a secret,

Because when you share your foundation with the world

There will always be idiots hellbent on testing it.

I know a lot, but not enough to root myself in ideologies

People praise my intelligence, but I continue to question it often,

Debunking my own assumptions.

I refuse to be a part of any community; averse to group-think.

I kill my ego like I breathe oxygen

All to continue being a sponge; receptive to the flow of new experiences.

I don’t internalize compliments because people rarely mean what they say.

There’s the universe that exists within me, and the universe that exists outside

Poetry is the cryptograph, the mediator — tether, between me and those that are willing

Willing, to peek into the sunless parts of my mind. It’s dark here.

Sometimes I feel like an imposter.

I feel like an imposter until I remember that I’ve fallen victim again

Fallen victim again, to the percolative effect of participating in our shared reality

Our shared reality makes everyone a subject

A subject to encroaching values and metrics

Values and metrics that were never mine

Never mine, and yet they hold onto me tight

So I dismember all foreign limbs and set a date for a future appointment.

A Repeat.

Because noone else will go through the trouble of maintaining my Kingdom;

And even if they miraculously manage to, it won’t live up to my standard.

– O.D. ©2022

Art by: theirison