Who You Are

It’s easier to pretend to be
than to be real
At least, that’s the impression
I get when I am
being real
Butterflies spin all around
and not just in my stomach
Beautiful spectrum like colors
possessed by some thing or
someone so controlling
that they all crave the same thing
And crave
And crave
until they desentigrate like fembots
and puppy dogs tales-a-waggin’
but their tongues become their ass
Even when they speak,
hardly can You tell them apart
until You by chance step outside
of it all
and realize
how hard it is to be yourself
once You find out
who You are

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