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So I heard some fake news the other day. Fake news. Fake news about a mothers sons bruise, because he bit off more than he could chew. Her aching mind always at odds because she couldn't diffuse the situation that made the accused, depression, her sons namesake. Fake news. Stemming from cooked up ideas, brewing from his inner most thoughts. Like astronauts, the few words he uttered always came in space. And when asked about that suitcase he carried all day, everyday, his whole life to be exact. He didn't utter words, but just shadows of everything else he should have said. His words hang like he did, in his head every night he lay flat. Flat on his back. Day came. And so he watched the skies, an image he thought was himself because he was always blue. Colorised like that light skinned craving that everyone including he called beautiful. His dark skin tone ugly. His body cloak the darkest night without the stars a splitting image of his life. It had no shine and honestly I think he knew. Fake news, of a whisper in the wind carried by voices of people that showed him bodies they called beautiful but never did he hear it for himself. The pain he felt never just words, it felt like a book. A scrapbook abandoned on that old creaking bookshelf, next to memories of his childhood he now could not recognise. He tried to wash away the thoughts, but those tattoos fastened tightly to his neglected skin. I mean him. Whose eyes didn't make you feel the many years of his mother's love, but just the guilt of depression pouring outward from within. I said fake news. His knees stained with mud because his knees deep in dirty thoughts, tears, and regret. That neighborhood boy that brought about that fake news is dead now. Fake news because he showed us the stars. His dreams in a jar, that's spelt to the ground. The background theme depression. The impression he left was that he never wanted the crown. Overburdened by life, and expectation. That neighborhood boy at the bottom of the ocean drowned. 19/10/17?
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