He wears a rustling black coat to keep it all: in. It smells of polythene.
His hair cut, like he was told, is contrasted by a brand of shoes that no ones know.
His confidence is progressive as he holds his college iD, endearing, and tight.
An intellectual, carrying the weight of books, his
spine an expert in gravity.
There's an unshaven lip and fragile glasses; he clutches the card every time someone parades in comparison onto the bus.
I look at him and he cowers back, holding the card with his hand covering his name...
He falls off the bus this morning, through the Education System, and lands back on hours later.
YOU ARE READING
The Confessions of a 90's Kid
Poetry"Words are weapons: for warriors, for war heroes, for worrying teenagers and therefore for me."