An Imperfect Rhyme

The world oft teaches me intensity
When upon my own bed I lie,
Learning the fakeness of intimacy,
And what it means someday to die.

Mistakes driven hard by an imperfect soul
will mirror an imperfect rhyme-
Identity lost in insurgence of role
and worth barely now but a dime.

How do I know what to perceive as truth
and what to dismiss from my mind-
fitting my morals into a small booth,
Or letting them keep on this grind?

Orwell* had seen the sheer complexity,
But I merely eyeball the sky,
learning the fakeness of intimacy,
and what it means someday to die.

*George Orwell (1903-1950)