poetry

Hypocrite on Borrowed Time 

Most of the time, I feel like a hypocrite. 
A regular fake
. People are so used to believing I’m something I’m not,
 I think I’m starting to believe it too. 
Why can’t I accept the truth? 
I find it might be easier than keeping track of my lies.

Sometimes I think the truth scares me. That 
if I stick around for too long,
 People might start to see me.

For who I am,

for who I’m not,

for who I tried to be,


for who I hoped to be.

When you don’t have an answer to that, 
It’s hard to even imagine. 
The truth is buried, and I’m living life on borrowed trust.

Someone listened long enough to trust me. 
And whether I intended to or not, I violated it by just standing there.

Existing.

Living.

Breathing.

Lies.

I’m not running from reality. I’ve misplaced it for so long, I’ve forgotten what it looked like
 and I can’t find way back. 
Is it perfect?
 Is it sad?
 Does it look for me at times?

Will people recognize me if I come back?
 Did they realize I went missing?

Mostly, I live in other people’s stories. 
A borrowed one perhaps?

I’m nothing but a hypocrite, living on borrowed time.

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