When are we honest

Yo. Who are you. I mean, who are you really
It's a question I've always approached somewhat queerly
Like, is this not me? Who I am each day?
Am I not myself if I live life in a comfortable way?

Yet I've heard it said, and heard it said sometimes by me
That most of the time in life what we say is untrustworthy
We have barriers, protections from a world always at war
Trying to break us down and then break us down some more

So we can't be honest. We can't speak our mind.
Except when we're in an intoxicated state of a kind.
Or we're tired. Or we're too young to know better.
Only when we're down can you trust our word to the letter.

So what? When I panic, or am stressed, I know I behave differently
Does that mean that these automatic choices represent me?
Rather than a decision I've thought about for hours on end?
Is that whole existence just a great game of pretend?

That doesn't me I can discard that me either
I'm accountable for them, and must act as healer
If I do wrong or behave in a way which harms
Because the conscious me wants to apply that balm

Here's the great truth. We are flawed. We are more than one thing.
We are our response to whatever challenges the world may bring.
Even if the responses would be different, they are the range of us,
But you can only ever act as you feel that you must.