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Mimicry

What fine artists we are
To go through all of our lives mimicking
Be it joy, happiness,
Or mere trajectory
We are more than what we portray
What we show on our sleeves

More sad is the fact, despite all the walls we've worked so hard to build
Masks so perfected that they cling to our skin
There lies our soul
Behind all those inhibitions,
still weary
Throughout our lives. Mostly and as well as a matter of factly.

I wonder why?

But who am I to raise such questions
When I too, am troubled by the mere thought of sharing my own vulnerability?

But who am I to raise such questions When I too, am troubled by the mere thought of sharing my own vulnerability?

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