Poser

The poser sits where light is low, A measured sip, a joke they know Will land just right—too keen, too slick, Their laughter hits a fraction thick.

They name-drop bands no one's heard yet, Adjust their vintage, fake distressed vest. The story's smooth, rehearse-perfect, A costume cut to fit the dirk.

But watch the eyes when backs are turned: A flicker, sharp, where calm should burn. The mask slips—just a breath—reveals The hungry void that honesty steals.

Not evil, no, but strangely sad: Performing who they wish they had Been born to be. The true offence? Not the deceit—but the pretence That they don't see the gaping hole Where self should be, and isn't whole.