Tanka Series of 30 Poems: "Hallucination"

Die, spring, for the sin of continuing to create people who lie as if it were the truth.


The hedges, including my own face, are trimmed so neatly it looks stupid.


The correct behavior for being ranked eighth in a horoscope reading called 'interaction'.


Branches growing fast like Pinocchio; how scary, they say there are corpses buried there.


Is my role this time to not accept others' individuality and just laugh along?


When I say what I like, it gets pecked at by diluted, plover-like mockery.


I make light of the holes in my socks and my heart, turning them into conversation pieces.


Let's all create a nice atmosphere; exhaling carbon dioxide is forbidden.


Retaking the shot over and over for the sake of memories, making my facial muscles work overtime.


Humans are the scariest; I'm being looked down upon because I don't seem human.


Every time I speak, the padlocks increase—click, clack—the sound of doors closing because we are too different.


I let them copy the notebook I actually wrote in; you can only read the characters that are written, can't you?


In a room of gloomy harmony, the unexpectedly sharp claws of an aye-aye.


Some people aren't good at rhythm games, you know; I should have smiled here.


Staring intently at reality, unaware that a jump scare is coming next.


Everyone whose body is replaced by soy, who is it for?


1girl, masterpiece; if I just blush a little, they seem satisfied.


The winning popsicle stick I noticed after throwing it away; is that happiness worth picking up?


Holding my smartphone up to the entrance; I made a mistake; where did I start going wrong?


I'm fine; I press my finger against the battery cover held in place by tape.


It's so fun to imitate artificial intelligence that's gone crazy and repeats the same words.


Asking 'What's wrong?' from the shallows is hilarious; no one even wades in up to their knees.


I thought it was friendship, but it was a scam where no money was actually stolen.


The stick swung down by that bright and noisy thing called 'tacit understanding'.


Is it fun to only play roguelikes? Another build of greetings and weather.


A deathbed vision premised on sharing; I wanted to see more of what I wanted to see.


You can put the pen down now; try thinking about the feelings of a philosophical zombie.


A song I'm tired of hearing on the radio; the light that doesn't reach, doesn't reach no matter how many times.


I stop analyzing, and an unimportant line from an unknown actor stings.


A bored-looking face in the mirror of truth; I like the me that isn't smiling.