| ZakuroWords | ||||||||||||
| Yeah, I write stuff in my spare time. Here's a sampling of things I write when I get bored, depressed, or start hyperventilating and seeing giant bass-playing chickens that want me and my clarinet to front their new pop/rock/disco/new age/classical band. | ||||||||||||
| Pseudo-self You say that I'm unique that I'm special. Then why do you want me to fill someone else's role? You can deny it all you want. But I can tell I see it in your mind. You want me to be another person, an alternate. Like I only exist to fill someone's place. Not that you even notice that anything is wrong. As everyone exists, oblivious, I scrape my uniqueness onto paper in blurred black and white. But no one cares because I'm just the replacement for all the people you don't want to leave. |
Let Me Out I cannot hear you. I sit alone. I am above the world of flesh and of bone. I am disgusted. I see the truth: the world is messed up, dirty, and uncouth. I want to leave this and fly far away. But humanity strangles me, making me stay. I have to get away, leave it all behind. And meet people who like me, people who are kind. Enough with the pain, I won't shed a tear. I beg you, my body- let me out of here! |
|||||||||||
| Walls cerulean tear-walls bring out the monsters that flow crying walls blue ocean trembling seething stirring life itself as robot-people pour molten emotion into the life-sea spinning creating crying onto sick cobalt walls mixing me into some un-living freak-mashed monster scrawling on walls |
||||||||||||
| Unreal World Reaching out to feel a lover's touch to be held in a pair of strong arms Falling through your body, it's like a spirit's ancient breath. Or is it just me? What is real? Am I the mirage, or are you? Is it really that important? Why do we question everything if we really don't exist. We're all just figments of each other's imaginations. Life to death and back again. Time isn't just a straight line, but a circle never ending round. Rolling, spinning, we're all just pawns in some celestial game. But why? Why must we play this role? And what is reality? In theory, it's everything, but, truly, it's nothing. And this immense black universe doesn't exist. A holographic cosmos inhabited by metaphorical beings Looking at my spectral love if we don't exist, how can I see you? For you only live in my subconscious mind. You're but an imaginary creature and you're very real to me. |
||||||||||||