Much I’ve done
and did
was to oblige
and act a part,

not from the heart.

For early on
my heart I hid—
atop a shelf—

even from myself.

I think I did it then
because I had to.

I found that to be me,
well, it was bad to.

I learned what I should feel
then I pretended,
but even when alone it never ended.

And why
do I
still do it now?

I’d stop, but don’t know how.

I’m a fraud
dismally flawed.

That’s all I know

yet on I go…

I don’t
know why
I do,

do you?