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We feign that our mental issues give us some sort of creative license. That the pain and suffering allots us a unique view. Unsure if the voices are manufactured or split from what is real. The pills will dampen the thoughts both negative and positive putting you into a gray blurry blotted area that makes you feel neither living or dead. Miss a dose and for a split second you feel the colors of the world rush in. Even if the only color is red from rage. The feeling of life is magnificent. Then you are no longer sure what is real. Which is the real you. The anger and the voices or that hindered thing that goes day to day merely existing. I do not claim that this writing is special. It is a fractured and pieced together string of words that makes barely coherent sense. What’s worse, in a few hours or after a night rest or when the medications begin to take hold again, I will see this as madness. Ramblings. Those who read it probably already do. We feign that we have talent, that we are special, we are not.
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Submitted on
March 11