I don’t belong here—
not in this house
with its chandelier glow,
its velvet quiet,
its rooms I’ll never know.
Once, we rationed
heat like a secret,
counted coins
like prayers.
Now, an embarrassment
of riches spill around me—
too much food, too much space,
too many suits tailored to
someone I don’t always recognize.
They call it
a confidence game,
but I still flinch
at the ghost
of unpaid bills,
will forever cut coupons
out of habit,
scoop up pennies
in the street,
They preach parsimony
over candlelit steaks,
but I know what it
means to walk carefully,
as if the ground might
give way at any step.
And yet, I smile
for the cameras,
sign my name
with a practiced hand,
laugh in all the right places—
as if I belong, as if I believe.
But in the
hush between
these heartbeats,
I wonder if the
house knows the truth,
if the mirrors
will ever whisper
my real name.
~Eric Vance Walton~
Be well and make the most of this day.
(Gif sourced from Giphy.com)
ABOUT THIS POEM: Imposter Syndrome—an unwelcome companion to anyone who has climbed higher, built from nothing, or dared to dream beyond their beginnings. I once thought that true belonging was reserved for those born into abundance, that without it, you’d always feel like an outsider. But life has revealed a deeper truth: in the secret chambers of our hearts, no one ever feels they truly belong. Life itself is a grand performance, a confidence game we all, consciously or unconsciously take part in. With time, I’ve come to understand and respect Shakespeare’s words more than ever:
"All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players."
In the end, we can accomplish anything—if only we believe we can.
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Poetry should move us, it should change us, it should glitch our brains, shift our moods to another frequency. Poetry should evoke feelings of melancholy, whimsy, it should remind us what it feels like to be in love, or cause us to think about something in a completely different way. I view poetry, and all art really, as a temporary and fragile bridge between our world and a more pure and refined one. This is a world we could bring into creation if enough of us believed in it. This book is ephemera, destined to end up forgotten, lingering on some dusty shelf or tucked away in a dark attic. Yet the words, they will live on in memory. I hope these words become a part of you, bubble up into your memory when you least expect them to and make you feel a little more alive.
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