The more I try to write fiction, the more the stream of consciousness sounds like a hen in a cage. I try to write poems, it sounds embarassing when you're not a teen anymore.
Doubts Well I've got this sensation, I suck at writing, so, better keep it in an old school copybook? I don't know actually...
Soul Ajar Watched a still #life through a hole, Dark still Red eyes staring wooden frames Baroque or plain Groveling through the aisles Of a miserable supermarket in the suburbs I dreamt of that girl dreaming golden frames Staring with that maroon eye At my black eye And I dissolved in downtown streets Everywhere, eyelids ajar Mixed with dust Floater Shadow of me
Name Burakku is the word an old japanese passenger used to describe his lost bag. Since then, I always loved it and I think I wanna be Burakku Bambi for at least two or three months.
Lillove Agony, sadness, this love I call it love, it is fog on grey roads All the trees with no leaves What I thought love was a bluish nightmare.
Hit Parade Cool, I'm the 666th on Opuss classification!
