Personal is real, impersonal is pretense, or blind? 
The way you are- real.

The way people want you to be. Unreal.
 Controls on your mind.
Loads of expectations...endlessly tiresome...
why won't people let me be...
why do their expectations creep up on me
and slowly take over?
So much so that...
Now I weave them together...

A tapestry of travesty,
the real and unreal...
wondering and waiting, 
is there any one who'd understand? Who’d see, 
in there some where the real me?
Guarded, so cleverly.
But people often are taken in by,
images they wish to see.
And the real me...
it has just me to play with.
The truth lies unheard,
except in my head.
The beauty wears the garbs of ugliness,
and is maligned ,
and ugly wearing beauty's Dress...
is adored and revered...
Only I know which is which...
and alone I sit year after year,
for some one to come and see clear.

For some one who knows,

And loves the truth.

A sleuth.

Who can unravel the mystery?

So artfully created

To play with the real me.

Bmw.