Just me, the chameleon

Though I struggle to admit it
I am such a chameleon.
Ever changing my mask, 
coiffure and demure,
to be what you want,
or you think I am,
or what you think I want to be,
other than just me, what I think I am.
Alone in my room, I ask:
"Who's that stranger?" 
staring back at me
in the mirror 
or reflected in the pond 
in the secret garden.
It's the looking-glass self I see, 
Not what I truly am, in reality.
For in a vacuum I'd expire to nothing,
quelled by uncertainty and doubt,
consumed by the turmoil of
tossing about all sorts of
possibilities about 
What I am, 
What I appear to be,
What I could become
What I appear the be, to others, 
if only they were there!

characterconfusionemotionsselffree verse

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