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.

Little James says he's reading
he seats tight but he's kidding
through the lines he's skimming
like a serious student he's feeling

Just few minutes he's sleeping
Exam is over he's laughing,
never to read again till next term opening
the habit of those who are cramming

Hold your book without dozing,
Set your mind to intensive reading,
Focus on helpful useful knowing
to be bold when you are graduating.

Moon:

Above the star
Along the universe
Towards nowhere
From the end
Off the ground
Around oblivion
Past the stars
Without scars
Before mars
Across the cosmos
Is my moon.

Bland colours on the walls reflect our hearts.
Cold drafts in the empty hallways inspire doubt in our already clouded minds.
       A stream of words, uninterrupted through the weeks and months, never ceasing,
        breaks even the strongest discipline.

Droning, numbing, abrading away all thought or whim, melding perfection,
           that may never come, that will never fully avail itself upon the collective senses
            Of the plenitude of “students” living and working between these walls.
The walls painted a uniform eggshell, urging to stay in the incubator.

The door stands as a gateway to another, brighter, complete, world.
              The door, though with hinges easily opened, and a threshold easily crossed,
               Has been lifted to a height unattainable to those who work alone, or in dissidence with others.
                It stands as a gateway, but the way has never been as arduous, nor as complicated, quite as now.

Why won’t you accept who I am
It’s like my whole existence is a sham
I’m told about who I used to be
What if that other me was never even really me
And what if I said I’ve changed
What if I’ve grown up and rearranged.
Sure I still love to bake and read
But I’m not the same, let me grow I plead.
I’m an artist. But to what extent.
I can be creative but I should have your consent.
I can draw and be wild
But in your eyes I am still I child.
I want my body as my canvas, to hold the things I love.
But it’s like I am a bandit, one you want rid of.
I want to color my hair to change with the wind.
But you’re inclined to remind me that it’s “just not me”
I never stopped being me don’t you see.
It’s how the me I am should be.
Don’t hold me back
I might draw back.
And sink into my void.
All because you destroyed.
Your wild blue eyed bird