Best Impostor Poems
What smug pseudomorph
inhabits my reflection,
adroitly mimicking my
every manner and expression,
mercilessly mocking me
with flawless simulation?
She is the great pretender;
a master counterfeiter;
a furtive opportunist;
a thieving imitator.
She is a soul-sucking demon
of the gravest degree;
a brazen parasite
feeding on health and ingeny,
pillaging my youth
with savage gleam and glee;
siphoning my precious hollow
of vitality.
Time ticks across my aging face
while our eyes lock in defiance,
and in the end, my spurious friend
will demand my full compliance.
So, with a twinkling eye I wink
at my mirrored facade,
acknowledging this fearsome foe
with a playful nod.
Respectfully reciprocal,
she gestures back to me in kind,
and we part as esteemed enemies,
to my last breath resigned.
Impersonator
Misleading
Phony poets
Overplayed
Sneaky
Treacherous
Erroneous
Ridiculous
Sneaky
Deceitful
Calculating and cruel
It poses as your friend
Offering comfort
Strength
A sense of achievement.
It isolates
Jealously guarding the relationship
Until it infiltrates
Every cell of your being
And claims you
As its own.
A sham,he really is!
He is just a mirage,with acts,illusory.
Tiptoeing in thirst for fame.
He swindles the thoughts of many
and manipulates the notions of fellows.
He is an empty pack,
with no match sticks.
He is a fallow land,
with the regular weeds.
His talks are smooth like the fine wine,
But in the real sense cut the skin
like the blade of a grass.
He poses to be a nature's green hop,
But he's indeed a tassel.
Do you choose to be a sham?
The unreal man that fakes life
till his time of old.
The Impostor
I, Strelitzia come to surprise
by turning your sightings up-side-down
with my vibrant costume and disguise.
Fiery plumage forms my crested crown
with feathery tips of indigo.
My boat-shaped beak is a mossy brown.
You’ll stop and stare at my bloomin’ show
of regal garb that always deceives—
a subject fitting for a Van Gogh.
Amid long blue-gray leathery leaves,
I can perch, I can pose, unafraid,
protected from would-be floral thieves.
It’s all a part of my masquerade.
Hummingbird visits—just part of the game,
though they’re not fooled by my sly charade.
I’m in the Imposter’s Hall of Fame
because everyone has to look twice.
Time to unmask and reveal my name:
It’s me! It’s me! Bird of Paradise.
Broken glass,
mosaic
Stomach chills
Grasp the truth
Shallow becomes deep
Emotions stir
with tender assault
Pale poker face
The serpent's greed
lacking purpose
creates anxiety
and
harbors anger for revenge
The tongue is split
I read your eyes
detailed
Time will be the judge
an boiling pot
- core of soul
She feels fake, a skilled adult impostor
constantly fostering a false decorum.
Her life stirs in seasons of autumn
but her grown-up has yet to blossom.
would see impostor
who had been with poor posture
paid for with a voucher
The perfect convict, without a name, without thoughts, destined to obey in a universe that weighs my mortal soul on the scale of immortality, I was born to die at the silent demand of my parents who wished to live their future by passing on to me genes that have no future.
The signatory by absence, I question the duty to be born in a simulacrum world, where no one chooses but is merely chosen.
Granting me the role of a colorful character through a manifesto-oracle that signs as fate and solidifies the dogma of a foolish fanaticism of believing in a world that appears differently, I was forced to assimilate the excess from the Absolute because the merciless fate was written with a quill right on my skin that holds the bones of a scoundrel.
Brought into a world that wants me to parade as a good individual in a collective that leaves at the entrance a ticket where death, nonchalantly imitating an accountant, signs with legible, firm handwriting under our date of death, I was not given the strength to fight, so I am heading towards a disaster disguised in a concept that tries to give life value and meaning, simulating the death of a body destined to return to the earth.
A curtain rises, I choose a little chair and look at the screen that presents me as an banal, a good-for-nothing, a child born in an era where men hide in their own bodies. In a surreal play with landscapes from a world that has no truth, I am the actor without a name, without a country, without a shred of future, because the drama playing on the floating screen seems to be that… I am an impostor.
The film hasn't even started well when a procession of servants, stepping imperiously on the carpet, announces to me that death has chosen my day to die and urges me, without shame, to go out into the corridor.
Resigned, I carry my being towards the corridor where death awaits me with the actor's ticket and shows me the short path to the floating paradise where I am again awaited to be part of this horrifying cycle: to be born against my will, without clothes, without eyes, in a world where life has lost its purpose, on the day when it sent the first man to death.