It's cloudy weather
Weather like London weather
Like the fog that hides
The villains of Sherlock Holmes
In the mist of the clouds
Yeah that weather.
And I write this,
With headphones in my ears
But no music
Listening to a teacher
Mutter like a mosquito
Insignificant
For now
She says she wants to read books
And all I want to do is curl up by a fire
With a flannel blanket
And a cup of cambric
And write

Today's the day
When people
Marched
Down their streets
Away from their houses
Towards the big outstretched arms of liberty
And equality
Today the
Fifth of May
Hooray hooray
I say
With paper flowers on either wrist
I'm American I don't understand
Your culture
Only the diversity of my own.
Which can include yours
But we shouldn't be alone

Sitting on the ground
On ear listening to music
Out of my headphones
And talking at the same time
Double take
Double trouble
Double face
Double life
Double

How strange is a hollow soul?
Left for dead in a berry bush...
How vast doth love creep in,
And fill the hollow soul again.

I could eat the cookie
But I already feel queasy
But you didn't have to cut me off
The song sings
And I type whatever comes into
The cauldron called my brain
Hey, that wasn't supposed to be poetic
But yet I feel as though I can't stop
Being poetic it comes like the
Air I breathe
It comes from the higher power
And I being the speck of dust
Am happy to oblige
So this is lunch
Thursday
And I sit and type
Whatever comes to my mind

Still half asleep
Nose is runny
And I don't even want to begin
About my hair.
But I am alive
And that's all that matters
Another day appears before me
So carpe diem
Shall I live
In fear and hide in a box all my life?
Or live to watch the sunrise settle on the far side of the hill?

The stench is repugnant
The smell of division
Multiplication
And the reeking stench of algebra
The rotting odor of trig
Is stronger than the B.O. Of the kid
Sitting behind me
This is repulsive
I fight to stay awake
But I cannot fight the urge to run
Away far away
To the deepest jungles
To the darkest depths
To that cross in the middle of two
Roads diverged in a yellow wood
Why can't I take the one less traveled by?
But instead the torture is about
To begin
Calling for my blood
Calling for my brain
Calling for my thoughts.