Bell of Good Luck

Your hateful lips form an accusation that cuts the silence in the air
“So who are you copying now?”
Your question is the clapper that sets forth the ringing of self-doubt in my mind.
It reverberates in my soul like the great Bell of Good Luck.

I ask the young me, who wanted nothing more than to be loved,
Who longed for the comforting touch of the man who made me.
“How can a natural phenomenon lead to blind faith following?”

The chameleon effect leaves my personality in shards like a pollock painting.
What once was an interest of mine is now under a meticulous and self hating microscope.
That child searched every fiber of their being for their authentic self,
Unsure if they were an imposter.

“Who are you copying now?”
I am a mosaic of all who has ever loved me,
I am copying my ancestors, the will of my soul, and the desires of my young self.
I am copying the collage that is me.