#POEIN : an independent roleplay blog for austin tyler weekes, an original character. NEW YORK TIMES #1 BEST-SELLING AUTHOR ( poetry, short-form fiction ). established 20231101. written by ink ( she / her, 25+, melbourne australia ). sporadic activity.
you are tired eyes & ink-stained fingertips ; wire-rimmed glasses nestled atop tousled hair in need of a wash, forgotten even as gaze attempts to squint artwork into some form of focus. you’re a from-page-to-life cliche, austin weekes - standing alone in a quiet gallery mere minutes after opening ; all boney limbs & too-big t-shirts & lightwash jeans that don’t quite sit right on your hips & bunch up around your ankles. whoever told you it was possible to subsist on a diet of black coffee & cigarettes was lying, & yet still somehow here you are proving them correct. one almost expects an unironic it’s the art that feeds me to fall from your mouth when questioned about it. you remember the glasses, & pushing vanity aside, you place them on your nose, taking a step back from the painting ( you swear even to yourself this is wholly unrelated to the hawkish glare the security guard pierced you with just moments prior as the tip of your nose threatened to touch the canvas ). doesn’t he know who you are ?
pretentiousness permeates thoughts, despite best intentions. just because someone works in a creative space, does not themselves a creative make — nor does it assure an interest in the area, either. you thumb through the small notebook you hold, opening a fresh page & scrawling a few words about the artwork & the feelings it creates within you. flip back through the other pages, you’ll see it’s all the same : excerpts of novels ; song lyrics ; a description of the sunset four thursdays ago ; a snippet of a conversation heard on a train —--- but all with elaborations on how it made you feel. people think you’re good with feelings because you can make them sound pretty on paper. your string of failed romantic relationships does little to give any weight to the hypothesis, but you often don’t bother pointing that out. you fall for it too, sometimes - thinking that your ability to spin pretty words together as art, as a career, means something about you as a person. perhaps that is why you find yourself in an art gallery early morning : an attempt to prove to yourself there is substance to you ; a meaning that isn’t just AUSTIN WEEKES, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR.
you take a moment to think about how this in & of itself - the creator of substance who so lacks any himself - is a cliche, & remind yourself to watch that video essay later on instagram poetry ( & then you’ll post your most recent photo dump, picking out a few words here & there from the notebook as the caption. after all, it’s other people who try to argue you’re in a different categories to those creators — you never confirmed or denied it, so what’s stopping you from doing as they do ? ). the notebook slips back into your pocket, heavier than it was before as the inked words regarding the painting ( & some about the security guard who is on his fourth lap of the room already, despite you being the only occupant ), & you itch your inner forearm as you head out of the room, taking the shortest route to the exit. you haven’t had your coffee-&-cigarette breakfast yet, & the signing in a few hours will be all the more worse for it if you put it off, so that’s your new goal for this morning. coffee & a smoke whilst ducked into an alley somewhere. maybe a pastry if one strikes your fancy enough.
it reminds you of high school, of college. affecting a persona until you couldn’t tell where it ended & you began. croissants, black coffee, & a cigarette for breakfast. you were fifteen. your girlfriend had just been come back from summer vacation in france. she’d thought it was hot. ( that - if you ever were to write a biography - is where it all started, you’d say ). she started the whole poetry thing, too. thought a man in touch with his feelings was hot. you soon realized other girls tended to agree - something about it being a refreshing change of pace. didn’t hurt that you’d be the one they turned to for english advice, & they often found inventive ways of thanking you for your assistance. you have that noted down in an old journal somewhere - not unlike the notebooks you carry around now. poets get pussy. a pithy observation at seventeen, but one you’d ( unfortunately ) still argue stands the test of time.
YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, AUSTIN WEEKES. the self-awareness of the fact does not negate the assholishness.
you glance at your watch - still early. already though, you’re sure there’s a line forming outside the store where you’re due in three hours to recite a few pieces, answer a few questions ( yes, that one is about sex. as is that one ), & sign books until your fucking fingers fall off. someone will inevitably hang back to flirt ( what is it about the gaunt perpetually tired look people find so sexy ? ) & you will, likely, accept their advances. kill some time before dinner, which you follow with a trip to a local bar, where you find time to kill yet again. repeat ad nauseum. a new city every few days ; a few fake-deep instagram posts to keep the masses happy, & hours spent repeating the same conversations & the same movements with different people. OH, HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO BE AN ARTIST ! if you really hated it, you’d give it up. delete social media, skip town, block your agent. but deep down you like all the perks. you like being thought of as the sensitive guy people can bring home to mom. you can quote austen ! how charming. it’s all an affectation. you’ve just long since forgotten which part of it that is.
your fingers accidentally brush the barista’s when they hand you your coffee. “ thanks, ” you say. “ sorry, ” you say. i’m a huge fan, they say. i was gonna go to your signing later, but i gotta work. you glance at them. “ oh, thanks, ” you say again. “ oh, sorry, ” you say again. a look shared between you. you’ve got some time to kill. you’d just be aimlessly sitting on a park bench somewhere after the alley coffee-&-cigarette anyway. “ when’s your break ? ”
AUSTIN TYLER WEEKES, TWENTY-EIGHT, A NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER IN 2021, 2022, & 2023. FIND HIM ON INSTAGRAM : @atweekes. TOURING NATIONALLY FOR NICOMACHEAN, AVAILABLE NOW WHEREVER YOU GET YOUR BOOKS.
austin & i are both of age, therefore nsfw may be present. things will always be appropriately tagged
just because a guy is sensitive doesn't mean he's deep, & just because he's deep doesn't mean he's automatically a ' good ' guy. austin is, at the end of the day, just A Guy . . . who happened to find some success thanks to the modernisation of social media & the way poetry is presented in its various lenses.
historically he's been pretty inept in long-term romantic relationships, which people don't quite seem able to understand. for someone whose job requires him to pour his innermost emotions onto a page & sell them for money, he's remarkably reluctant to really & truly let himself be seen & known by someone.
don't be weird, or gross, or a shitty person. don't godmod, etc.
triggers are tagged as ' TRIGGER / '
he's a bisexual short king at 5'6½". love that for him tbh. give it up for the short kings
i don't bite so if you have any questions feel free to throw 'em at me ♡︎
memes never expire, & i don't consider sending in a shippy memes ( or twelve ) to be 'force shipping' - it's simply testing the waters, & it's my favourite thing to do
speaking of memes, they are my favourite & easiest way to start interactions, so please don't be scared to spam my inbox, or even link me to your memes so i can spam you ( i'm bad at sending memes because they always seem to be reblogged when i'm at work / mobile *sob* )
i think a cup of tea can fix many an ailment, tbh, & i think scones should be eaten jam before cream
i have too many blogs, & combined-type adhd. yeah, i'm sick of my shit too
