I am a nightmare even on the best of days,
forever toting anxiety, such a heavy burden
and a reluctance to hide how I really feel
all the while being contrary enough
to make an attempt that muddles my nature.
Easygoing was never an accusation flung my way,
down to earth is out of the question.
But deception is a murky pond with no visible end
and I will try my best to make you believe otherwise
while feeling contemptuous of those who wear such labels.
Even my finer points aren’t worth much discussion.
I’m okay, at best, with nothing of excellence to note,
but I can fake interesting like a child fakes the flu;
semi-believable, but nobody really buys it.
Fraudulently endearing myself, or hoping to at least.