If it’s not real to you, it won’t be to them.
Write true.
Write about you.
The
Still..
You’re so still.
Silent.
You’re so silent.
Left in what was left open, not much. It was the worst of times, a brighter tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. Embellishing even the smallest of amounts wouldn’t cover the tragedy swarming amongst us, then. You. Are. Still.
What’s real??
This was not real to me, the typical 9-5, nor was that apocalyptic twilight zone budget living, those days.
What’s true?
There are so many stories, so many theories leaving us ill at ease and you’re so still, still.
What’s real?
Could reality consist of exposed nerve endings, raw empathy, crying happy tears or having a mental breakdown?
What’s real?
A tight embrace?
Burying a loved one while they’re burying you?
You’re so silent these days. I guess nothing has changed much from June.




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