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Chameleon

The stranger who passes knows not of my path.
Through all the miles, the tribulations and trials,
Mine is a feigned smile, covering a layer of wrath.
And every so often it slips through my grasp.
I'm remorseful for my ire, every present has a past. 

Every tree has its roots, every day has its dawn,
But if I ask myself seriously, am I a cultural chameleon?
I looked in the mirror to see which version of me I had drawn.
I've traveled to and from, the feeling of home doesn't come.
It's not as if I'm lost, its as if I was gone all along.

Reflecting now I know it's certainty which I envy. 
Not the coveted life of picturesque rendering.
My ego makes me pretend to be without a single enemy.
With all the luxuries of a metaphorical spending spree.
But the truth of the matter is, I'm left with me, myself and I:
The three don't agree, on which me is me and which me is a lie.




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