our english teacher
(miss conti, such a wonderful woman
she loved me but i was always
too fearful of
l o v e to accept that)
was gone for the day
(freedom at last, the boys called)
but the band teacher
(a horrible, wretched man)
had gotten arrested last evening so
the library
(a place of sanctuary, assigned for a man made of darkness)
was cleared out for a support group
talking about how much they never thought he was
capable of such atrocious acts
(but i never personally knew him)
i stood there, amongst the crying
individuals, those whom i only knew for two weeks
(they knew each other for quite longer
remember when drew stole dom's reading log
back in elementary school? i didn't but it felt like i did)
where did i fit in? i asked myself
(de fi ni te ly no tt he re)
trying to sit with andy was a bust
(although andy tried his best, he had his own friends)
but eventually i just wandered around
one of the teachers came up to me, asked me how i was
i said i was fine (was i fine? i was lost amid my own life, so no, no i wasn't)
so they left me alone to stand there, awkwardly,
as i watched over the miserable scene, witness to their anguish
(if only i could relate to them, but how could i
when i was only here for but a single fleeting moment?)
hold hands, join the circle,
be one with the group
but even holding someone's
sweaty hand never made
the isolating feeling, the sensation of immense, immeasurable
loneliness amongst the populace
g o
a w
a y
(to this day, i am the spectator, living a life from the backseat)
((i wonder when i'll get into another hemorrhaging car-wreck))
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
