Poetry, Writing

What’s Real?

The words we hear seem to contradict themselves.
making it hard to know what’s not a lie.

Its like sifting through the rubble,
just to have an undistorted view.
It’s hard to find authenticity,
with all this false identity.

All these people trying to be
something that their not.
Acting like a credit card
can make them who they are.

Are we being ourselves,
or living through someone else?

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