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Dec 2018
I am a monstrosity in idle pursuit of the unconscious aesthetic. A fabrication groping wildly, desperately, for something. Anything.

If you don’t exist, someone should invent you.

I am a smudged sketch of a human being searching for the safety of definition, for the concreteness of a reality that has made a game of eluding me. We play hide and seek, pushing and pulling. I tug and am sent careening backwards into obscurity.

If you don’t exist, someone should invent you.

I am Atlas, but I do not hold the sky upon my shoulders. I am instead crushed by its weight. My soul--what is a soul, truly?-- is a wet mollusk thing, hollow and easily overpowered. It fades to the nothing from whence it came.

If you don’t exist, someone should invent you.

I am a cavity in a saccharine society. These are the words of a social mutation, a symptom of the sticky decay that lies at the center of everything. The words of someone who has nothing to write and, thus, writes of nothing.

If you don’t exist, someone should invent you.

I am a faded doll in search of a sunbeam. Dusty and ***** and broken and unwanted, left to slowly wear and unravel at the cruel hands of the merciless wind. These are the words of no one at all.

If you exist, you should invent yourself. Over and over, each momentary iteration approaching, but never quite reaching, actualization. The final form is forever held at arm's length.
I know this isn't very good poetry, or even very good free verse, but I'd love commentary. I've read it over so many times I can't analyze it anymore.
Written by
G S  16/F
(16/F)   
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