This Is Real

This Is Real

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Austen Clare. That's who I am. 17 years. That's how old I am. Stupid. That's the word I use to describe the human population. Interesting. That's the word I associate with everything. Everything. The thing I think about most. Most. What consumes my brain. Brain. What keeps me alive and holds everything I've learned like my name; Austen Clare. And so on it goes. It could turn into something else, maybe talking about spoons, who knows? There's hundreds, thousands, millions, of possible outcomes to this conversation I'm having with myself. That's the thing about life, it's always changing and you will never know what's next, you won't even know if any of it's real. But this? This. Is. Real.
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I had survived the first. That was then; this is now. The blindfold of so many pills slowly died away and first though my finger then my head, a passion, a hurt and a need filled me as every moment was consumed with words; every breath with wisps of ink. But they were not all captured and somewhere in the deep abyss of living, lies the unspoken, almost unfelt feelings of decades in months. This is the half-empty account off all those nights from December through into the new year and the end of March. ...I pains me to share it. But it also makes it just not my problem anymore and that is something I long for- freedom and peace. Please note that all grammatical and linguistic, as well as those in punctuation and spelling or placing of words were intentional. If you LIKE this and want me to write a commentary on each poem and picture (as in my previous collection Apfel), please show me in comments and votes :) PLEASE DO NOT COPY any of the poetry or pictures.

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