Shhhhh! don’t tell, but I’m a fraud,
It makes me cringe when some applaud,
And praise me for what I have done,
Are they telling the truth, or just having fun?
‘Oh, poor love, she gave it a try,
So we’ll humour her with a lie.’
I look at things that others do,
And lament, ‘I’m not as good as you,’
But still, some see fit to commend,
As though I am on par with them,
It only serves to confuse,
Perhaps it’s all part of their ruse?
Imposter Syndrome is far too grand,
For the likes of who I am,
But an imposter is how I feel,
Just a pretender, nothing real,
Don’t use the writer/artist label,
For me ‘cause all I do is dabble.
With educated intellectuals,
My poor mind seems ineffectual,
Enlightened ones in all their wisdom,
I look like a cheap imitation,
Surely someone will discover,
The truth about me and tear me asunder.
Fake, Phoney, Charlatan, Sham,
Names I too well understand,
I’m just playing at being clever,
I wonder if I will ever,
Believe the compliments that some give me,
Or forever be burdened by this insecurity?