Waiting for you is like
Being the passenger on a bus next to the window seat.
No matter how crowed it gets.
No matter the amount of stops the driver makes.
Being next to the window is the best seat.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely seen.
Being the passenger
Lost in thought.
Waiting for you gives a certain sensation.
The sensation that there is something to be had,
building great anticipation.
Giving a chance to sit back & reflect.
Thinking the thought of maybe if not this stop.
Maybe it's the next when the driver finally hits the air brakes.
Being the passenger next to the window.
Viewing the world inside out.
The nooks & crannies, a part of you that is rarely
seen.
But eventually every bus has to make it's last stop.
No matter how long the ride

I missed the bus seconds after the last passenger boarded.

Now I sit here alone,
Waiting for another vessel
To drag me to my destination.

The air is cold,
And my heart is still thumping away
Due to physical exertion to reach the thing I missed -
But like everything else,
My hopes,
My dreams,
They're too far to reach.

I don't know how to end this
But mention the tiny speckle of headlights
And the roar of the large vehicle in the distance.
So now I think:
'There's always another bus.'

I wake up
        head ****
        shoulder roll
        tongue click
I get ready for school
        head ****
        head ****
        groan
I get on the bus
        oi
        whimper
I put on my headphones
        arm ****
People stare
        oi
I suppress
        They build
The minutes drag on
        Like an itch they can’t be ignored
The bus can’t go fast enough
        They’re pushing up
We arrive at school
        They’re going to escape
I run off the bus
        They begin to explode
        head ****
        arm ****
I distance myself from the students
        oi
        arm ****
        head ****
        head ****
        groan
        tongue click
        tongue click
        whimper
They stare
        shoulder roll
        arm ****
        shoulder roll
        whimper
        oi
        oi
Everyday I tic and twitch

These buses sound like dinosaurs
With screeching brakes and engine roars

At night the boys go hunting buses,
Tight-lipped eyes
Loaded with anger,
Gun-barrel arms
Tattoed at the shoulder
And quarry-stone cocked in their hands.

The finger-high boys
Of corner-store cool,
Snarling boys,
Drinking the dark and unloved spaces,
The public places,
Where they have ****** both grog and girl.

They've flogged the stolen cars for fun
In third gear up Spit Hill
And disappeared in the Wallaby Grass
As the sirens wail
And the cars burn.

Footpath foul round cul-de-sacs
These branded boys
Have made their name,
And window panes
Have felt their bitter
Forceful curse.

And tonight the boys are hunting buses,
In tobacco-black suburban hollows
They're taking aim
And will sleep
Smiling
Once the **** is made.

School buses are student transportation machines.
It transports children to and from school each day on a regular basis.
Also, it has stop signs and yellow crossing arms on school buses as well.
And it still runs on ultra low sulfur diesel fuels.
When I become a professional school bus driver, i can pick up children to and from school in style.
That's why I love school buses.

Anonymous.

She was tragically sad in a way that I was but couldnt afford to have tattooed on me because im african and no one has time for internal misery when there are kids with flies on the look out for something to unempty their bellies, you know stuff you see on telly  
She had blond curly hair and we had the mutal understanding that bus rides were where we went to check on our selves, see how well we had supressed the demons for that day or week or past ten years
When I was going through my episodes I'd reinvent myself by establishing a new laugh
"Does this make me sound happier"
She would decide she was moving to india but never really left the university or ended up in brixton
Thats heres india if you cant afford the real thing
We would go for months without speaking and she would show up At my door with dark brown tresses dyed to conseal the misfortunes, unrequited loves and abortions
And I would put together the potions to help us through. No bus rides. just camomile teas and rouge lipsticks  
Sit at cafe rouge and pretend to be happy old ladies meeting to exchange photographs of our grandchildren

I don't think deep thoughts every day.
I think of them when I'm alone in a car, with my headphones on,
And when I'm on a bus, when I don't have a friend to pass the time.

The buildings rush by me, and I concentrate on their cracks and blemishes
Only for those few seconds.

But in those few seconds:
I think about how that particular crack came to be,
Why that particular color was chosen,
Why they weren't able to afford a better house,
My favorite memories,
My best friends,
My favorite songs,
How poor our society is,
How I want to help,
How I know that whatever I do,
Things will always revert to what they were.

You want me to cut straight to the deep stuff,
To have intelligent conversation,
To ask me my opinion on everything.
You can ask me all you want,
But I already would have forgotten the answers.

Let me tell you about public buses
with their rolling wheels and upright seats
where the driver entraps in his own world
and as the passengers, we in ours;

but there's a strange occurrence
when strangers share the same seat--
suddenly, we are sensitive
to their slightest movement
the deepness of their breath
our legs touching slightly, sometimes
ramming together throughout
this epic journey.

then, it's our stop;
we are at the window seat, our eyes darting
outwards, with a speeded heart,
our eyes focus on our
impending bus stop.

but before our words form
the sounds, articulate the words,
this stranger has already shifted
with a smile.

"Thank you," you say, stunned,
wondering how they knew
your feelings.