Halls walked in, every day for twelve long years, a musky scented prison.
Eight o’ clock to three o’ clock…
Easy- until the last four years...
It’s the awkward quadrant of life.
Strangled by stress, buried by busywork- feeling like cold iron crushing your windpipe
Work, work, work…
Busy, busy, busy…
All day, every day there’s things to be read, tests to be done.
Friends flutter by, moving in and out of your life identical like the salty, sandy tides
All around you one moment…
Then they’re miles out of reach….
Calm but unpredictable.
The mushy slop, given to kids but fit for inmates. The atrocious taste of mold and curdled milk.
Something that crawled from the sewers…
It might slither of your tray…
But you gotta eat, right?
Dumbs*ts yell and boast about sports and girls, loud and obnoxious to the ears.
B*tches blab about boys and shoes…
Malignant bastards…
All of ‘em.
Ugh,
*eye roll*
High school.
