3/6/14
School.
Such the topic.
In (and at) every child's throat.
Limp around their ankles.
Such dead weight.
Clogging every small soul (and eye).
Chain entwined with potential.
Such a dull feeling.
Claws in their empty stomachs.
Sarcastic sighs and clenched fists.
Such weakness
Instilling itself in every decision,
Story,
Breath.
A black routine, the unwanted success!
Such a black routine.
Sometimes I wear my seatbelt on the bus
Try to ignore the same songs on the same station at the same times sung by the same people in the same way with the same beat and the same lessons and the same scowl and the same laughter and the same sights pounding like a headache through the same window glass with the same stains all over it.
I pretend all of it isn't playing over and over and over and over and over and I pretend
I'm still just a little girl
With no expectations for the world before me.
And, oh god,
I'm sick of it.
