There on the tar
Lies paint with a purpose
We wander too far
Over the lines of hierarchy
Destined to face the consequences
Set by the ones whose eyes
Have experienced this all before.

Troubled souls state simply
That lines are meant to be crossed
They say this with impulse in limbs
With zero regard for the tarnished ending.
Souls of this demeanor
Will never wholy construct the finish
Solely being because of velocity.

You’ve state the line is blurred
The paint is worn or faded
Yet I still stand here listening.
This road has been shattered by youth
The less weathered assume the sun
Would’ve dried the paint by now.
Little do they know
The paint has always been wet.

Don’t cross the yellow line
She says
I do just that

Look in ALL the mirrors before reversing
She rehashes
I glance at one

Put on a signal before you turn
She insists
I turn without a pause

Full stop at the stop sign
She stresses
I slow down a fraction

Be careful with right turns
She warns
I nearly crash a curb

What will it take you to ever heed me???!
She demands in hopelessness

A week later, there’s an accident on 74th street
She gets her answer.

Galaxy gardener sailing a ship,
through endless horizons it makes a trip.
She/he looks into the inky canvas blend,
then scatters some seeds in the spacial rend.
What does await this brave lovely soul,
when we see the universe's gears roll.

Ionizing radiation penetrates through,
while watering can always holds true.
Space turf gingerly shovelled over seeds,
her/his forehead adorned with water beads.
Nitrogenous nutrients now nuzzled into,
the serene slumbering seedlings to be.

Galaxy gardener greets growing greens,
lively lushscious leaves forward leans.
Wormhole worn star systems she/he fixes up,
as does she/he proudly prune her/his wondrous crop.
Many a plant has grown under her/his care,
yet she/he never feasts on the fruits they bear.

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.

You remember my name.
You remember how it sounds when spoken aloud.
You remember how it looks when written in black ink.
You remember the face that goes with it.


I remember nothing of you.
No name, no sound, no face.
Some would call it a tragedy.
But I call it freedom.

I'm in a class,
We sit in chairs.
The teacher talks,
They listen and stare.

And I'm unfocused.

My pen is scratching,
My mind is clear,
The class is there,
And I am here.

And I should focus.

Oh, ****.
It's quiet.
Have I been caught?
This is something that I should not
Be doing
But I can't help it,
I'm trying to get it,
But my mind is flying,
And I'm sick of trying and
My brain is crying for
More than I'm offered and
**** IT!

I just can't focus.

Today I walk home alone.
This is unusual.
I look at those who pass the other way.
I hear snippets of what they say.

Three girls -
"'Cos am a student, yeah, it's like, at the front of my mind, it's always, like, money"
- on a night out.

Front of your mind? It's BACK.

I wonder what's in mine.
I've been talking to God a lot.
He gives me answers.
I've
       forgotten a lot
of the French I learned at school.
I'd try harder if I had those classes again
     now.
Would you?

Your French might be perfect.

Adieu.

There was a place where children goes.
To have fun while learning, for their future so.
Four walls, a roof, and a person in-charge.
With the board and a chalk, a new class is starts.

Half of the day is for learning new things.
And the rest is for them to decide.
The night still part of the learning.
Doing homework and projects, and then I became tired.

Every day I need to wake up early.
Prepare myself as for school is in the morning.
Sleepy as I want, I can't help but to get going.
For I am, and I should, go to school whether I like it or not.

First grade, Second grade, each year, new class.
New topics, new classmates, how am I suppose to catch up?
A year is not enough, yet they forcing me to learn.
For they are elders, and they know what is the best for me.
Failure is disappointment.

Third grade, fourth grade, and the following grades.
Each time grade I step is another year of punishment.
I don't like it, I hate it, this is not learning.
All they do is to force me to learn things I don't want.

If there's something I don't understand.
They ignore me and go on with the class.
Test coming up, I got a failure grade.
They blame me for I can't understand.

Why? Why? I'm trying to learn all those things.
But if there's anything I don't unerstand, everyone ignores me.
How? How? How could I learn what you're teaching?
Everyone keeps ignoring me, how would I supposed to learn?

Year after year, the fun of learning disappears.
Yet they all act like it is a fun thing to do.
What am I supposed to do if I am treated like an idiot?
Everything they taught, I don't understand a thing.

Bullied, ignored, punished for unable to learn.
School isn't fun, that's what I know.
Forced to learn, forced to follow.
I see no difference than that being a prison.

School is scary, I don't want to go there anymore.
My room, my room is the place where I belong.
I don't care whatever people tell me about the school.
It's all lies, I'll better of dead than going back there.

Even if my parents gets mad at me.
Even people hates me.
Even if the whole world is againts me.
I will never, ever go back there.
Never.
For the rest of my life.
Never.
Even if they hurt me.
Never.
Even if they convice me.
Never.
Whatever the will tell to me.
Never.
I don't want to go there.
I don't want to see it either.
I wish that school doesn't exist.
It is a scary place.
I will never ever go there anymore.
Never.
Never.