I'm over my head in artificiality.
I have such hatred for life.
There's no room for dreamers in this artificial existence.
The purpose I don't understand.
I can't comprehend the unwritten rules,
The unspoken words, unknown traditions.
Bad dreams don't stop.
Demons ruin the planes of my mind.
The mindless ruinings of the artists,
The writers, the creators of dimensions,
The creators of alternate worlds.
Originality is taboo.
Here we must all be exactly alike,
Perfect in every way,
Just like everyone else.
It's an artificial world.
Artificial world, artificial place,
Artificial lives.
Castaways from universal deception,
We are the Children of the Soul.
The only ones who know what is actual.
We are.
Here I am in my artificial room,
Feeling artificial emotions,
Crying my artificial tears.
The Children of the Soul are reality.
In my artificial world,
We all know the same thing:
We are here for only one purpose,
For an artificial purpose.
Planets are nothing.
Universes are nothing.
Unless there is originality.