Impostor Syndrome

Here I am

Under nostalgic skies

Aging personalities like every favorite song

Loved until I'm dying to find another

Over and over

When I am

Suspended under shifting clouds

Formed by metamorphic judgments

Out of the shapes of my own perspective

Like a tornado winding itself up with the wind; it's

How I am

I disrupt the calm with each chaotic ripple

Yet I am

Still at a distant glance,

Like a renaissance painting

Cloaked in layers of paint swatches

Strokes of mistakes covered up to perfection

And messed up again by some careless error

Or a failure to see that it was already perfect; it’s

Who I am

I come to life and die away

Like a grand master's canvas

As they learn how to paint

-a resurrection of the most elegant fashion.

Yes, I am.

And yet, how am I supposed to be seen

For more than what I show?

How could I expose

Everything that lies underneath

When all I seem to know how to do

Is reduce my best efforts to

Faking My Own Depth?