Imitator Poem by Achim Wollscheid

I don't know myself at all,
Perhaps no one truly knows them self.
It's always the material/superficial elements that serve as a status for who we are.
The clothes,
Money,
Popularity.
It's sickening, do I know who I am?
Am I defined by the pair of jeans that I choose to wear,
the style I put in my hair?
I ignore the little things that make up me.
I care not about my smile, nor my laugh or the rise and fall of my voice when I speak.
They're what I find myself trying to change.
These are facets I hide that others find strange,
But they unlock a part of how I was made.
How I was structured to act a certain way, naturally.
My allergies, and sensitivities, my negativities, are all puzzle pieces, so I see.
They are the fabric of me.
I just don't know myself; I came to this conclusion.
I have A million insecurities about the way that I was woven.
The mirror speaks shamelessly louder to me than God has ever spoken.
This pretty woman and that big shot man appeal to me more than what I've been sparingly given.
I don't know myself, I'm clearly just another imitation.