I sit here at the edge of the stage, worried for my turn,
As the girl with the pretty blue hair walks offstage.
Her voice entrances millions of all races.

My hair shimmers into existance,
a shine of red, like blood,
and it falls into hazel eyes.

A face marred by the pink of freckles,
with teeth of a pale white,
and a mouth unsure.

My chest fills, and I'm fairly average.
Nothing much to distinguish me
from the average male.

My legs show, pixel by point.
They are slender and fit,
better to run from stage,
then to one.

The bell rings, and I get to feet that seem to fill in.
I walk, and a voice constucts for me to sing with.
I don't know how to match the girl.

I stand before a digital crowd, and look amongst,
and not a friendly face I see.
They boo and jeer, “I'm not a Vocaloid!” they cry.

I stare at the programs, as they cry for my blood.
Blood so recently formed, so untried.
I search deep into my heart, and I begin to shout.

“A life I live, a life so short,
but one of doubt and self defeat,
you call for me death, a quick delete,

But this song I scream.
From the bottom of my heart,
one that shatters your pathetic dream,

I may be a guy,
so I suffer your hate,
with barely a sigh.

I might be new,
So I wait and see,
for people to look up,
and notice me,

My song rings out,
loud across the room,
with no real pattern.

I scream out my feelings,
to the beat of fingers,
across a guitar.

Soon, the people start to hear,
the sounds of my soul.
The rhythm of my words.

My anger at the people,
my fear of nonexistence
and my sadness at being second.

Security soon approaches,
to take me off stage,
and end my pitiful song.
Dooming me to darkness.

The stage lights up, with red,
then a counterpoint,
a singing blue.

My rage and fire,
soon tempered by a cooling aqua
and the voice of the girl before.
Saving me from the deafening sound of
the dark silence.

Soon the song turns,
and becomes a harmony,
one of perfect tune.

And what was once an idea,
inside a strange mind,
grows to popularity before the world.

But all songs end, and my voice fades,
as I stare at the crowd, one so quiet,
I doubt I'll come back.

It all depends on the fickle fiend,
of the people's desire.


...do you like me?