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• enigmaticlibra

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Birthday
• 1991-01-05
Gender
• Female
Location
• throughout the vast infosphere network
Member Since
• 2004-05-05
Occupation
• metal collecter
Real Name
• Nazo or what most of my friends call me...Dracula..

Personal

Achievements
• pulling myself apart for others, achieving peace with myself
Anime Fan Since
• 5, ( sailormoon 1st aired)
Favorite Anime
• descendents of darkness, tsubasa,chrono crusade, FMA, rurouni kenshin,fruits basket,naruto,trigun, full moon,aria,ghost in the shell, clamp works, and others
Goals
• collect even more manga, and rid the world of my misfortunate cousin
Hobbies
• reading, collecting manga, sometimes writing poems, and collecting pieces of metal.
Talents
• expressing emotion in the ocassional poem, and serious devotion and loyalty




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myOtaku.com: sailorcrystal


Thursday, June 21, 2007

   Birdcage
Pain is my existence the deviant to my sins.
With destruction and fear I keep staring at the wall.
Over and over tracing and painting new markings upon previous ones.
What is the point of sitting against the wall if nothing is to be done in a reapetive motion?
Such as the constant swinging of the pendulum within the antique clock that stands right above my gaze?

Crying for the dream someone who seems to have an item so expensive.
The price of one's soul if one is witness for him this hollow heart,
cannot even begin to phantom such coverage for that jewel in the red
velvet box upon the manger's throne of pricy gifts for profit.

The night brightly lit by passby stars flooring the pedals of imaginary cars and coaches.
The glass highways in andromeda lined and held in helms by crimson trackers.
Enough dreaming of false gods, I keep staring at this wall tracing patterns I notice the changes begin to take hold,
slowly eating away at some poor pity half-assed whelp.

Sweet light....under the same night, memories of day to come visions existence.
A shattered heap of glass reflects the pain millionfold.
Light plays whimsy tricks hindering the procession of many hearts.
The use of the dead is too damned.
With the moments flowing by as the span of illusions twisting greatly valued mirrors in the darkness.
The reasons seem to waver and with bitter words as the velvet sins,
The distant chirping of birds can be heard.

In gentle flutter of wings beats down upon the golden laced bars
and ultraviolet rays paint the room such as the dying horizon.
I am looking for something that is undeniable, tangible,
something real beyond the wildest of asspirations.
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