I live all alone in a world that’s filled
With mysteries and wonders and stories
In a space where this imagination of mine
Plays like a curious little bright child
The child unconsciously builds and creates
All of these fictional worlds, playing, learning,
Dreaming of this wonderful oddball, Earth
That inhabits our fallacious thoughts, minds
Like the shenanigans and all the doers
And the sarbacane that poisons the life
Of a character of mine; plotting, ideas
As my imagination solely fly to abide.
All of the crazy stories and sentences that come out from my imagination and this place of emotion sometimes scare me, for you really have to go inside of the abyss where nobody goes so as to go dug for these buried ideas, which to me really looks like a wonderful world of alienation.