I don't think I'll ever be able
to tell anyone who I am –
really who I am.
Not even my 'great' love –
if I manage to get past the mediocrity
that surrounds my entire existence.
For I lack the words that I need,
the ability, the knowledge, the skill –
the desire to be more.
Resting, contented, in my limitations
while thrashing from within
without escape or relief
from my tongue's cruel imprisonment.
But I am the one who secured the lock
and swallowed down the key,
feeling it grind, raw and dry,
down my wasted throat
that exists only to churn up bile
and inadequate professions of me
and who I pretend to be.
My pretend is so convincing
that even I, myself, believe it is so.
And such this curse hinders me
from ever willing any change
for I sincerely believe
there is none to be made.
Pretend is meant for children.