Selling Yourself Short

My guess is

That you’re trying to not be what you are

So wonderfully, hysterically futile

My guess is

That you’re selling yourself woefully short

I know I did

I kept my sights in check

Punched well below my weight

Procrastinated, dissembled

And came up with a hundred excuses

Believing that if I hid beneath the parapet

I might escape the inescapable

Trying not to be this

Made me mad

Not all-out-bonkers insane

But contained, constrained, numb

Then the lying came to an abrupt halt

There I was, totally exposed

Deeply insecure, stumbling uncertainly

Rendered utterly incapable

Of being anything other than this, here, now

And inexplicably, incomprehensibly happy