Njogu_Magz writes about someone who works hard to be liked and still feels overlooked. The speaker addresses "you," so it reads like a pep talk or a quiet confession to oneself. The person described is warm, gentle, graceful and eager to please, yet underneath that pleasantness the heart is "en-caged" and "booms," complaining that the mind has become "a mall," crowded with everyone else's wants and opinions.
The questions repeated through the poem ("What is it that they see?" "What is it that you don't give?") show a growing anxiety. The person keeps guessing at what others need and never gets an answer. The sharpest lines come near the end: "Always the nice one, / But never their number one." Being agreeable, it seems, hasn't earned closeness.
The closing questions about vanity, reality and sanity leave things unresolved. The mood is wistful and a little weary, with a thread of self-doubt about whether this people-pleasing is even worth it.