by Isaac Robinson

Tell me who i am.
The words seeth out of your mouth.
Am i good?
Am i joyful?
Do you know the nights? 
The dark?
The times no one is around?
Of course not.

Tell me what to do.
The words contradict themselves.
I cannot be a student and pay for bills.
I cannot figure out what i want to be without failure.
Why must everyone assume i am Perfection,
The very essence of being touched by God.
Maybe no one thinks that.
But your words keep searing into me like
A tiny knife that digs slowly to my heart.

Hypocrisy is a two trick pony with one actual movement.

I have been deceived. 
My thoughts echo with the pain of the world.
I think too much.
But,
Who i am, is not who you think i am.
Who, then, am i?