Xenophile
Sometimes I think my brain just babbles a lot, trying to sound pretty. Maybe that's because of high school English. Thanks, America.
I have always wanted to burn Shakespeare alive, and bleach those old-English flourishes from my brain.
I am neither Nippon-born,
Nor do I share the wild scorn
For passions erected of ancient days
Portrayed upon a sun-bleached skein,
Inked in ebony, sold to the masses,
Left in dust upon my desk
While I contemplate a better life,
While Nippon gripes in its own strife--
Loses its soul to past and present,
And outsiders who view its dreams.
How can we part, viewer at Art
How can we look away and sunder
Life accused and its own err
Whence these dreams fly,
Hitherto we shut the door on ancient days?