Wednesday, February 09, 2005

For Jesse Ca (I know, it sucks...but you made me write something..so...blah)

I sweep my way through the iridescent hallways, taking notice of nothing but my footsteps and the hollow stares of the drones of people that pass, huddled together as if to ensure their role in society, as mindless mass-productions.
I stop at the familiar floor and drift my way to my locker. This is that which holds my possessions? It fits the bland-ness to which it holds: textbooks, binders, backpacks. Our possessions are mere words held together by a spine. Are we all just words and spines? Do we have a lock to what we hold inside?
I stop thinking. I try, at least. And I look up, for the first eventual time, scanning, it seems, for hope.
Black visions fly my way as I tilt my head to his direction, my tongue already frozen from ice. Dripping, oozing, drowning. The black poison fill my thoughts, until I cannot think and my throat is thick with black and my eyes are fixed in one position and all I can do is stare and stare and stare. I can't see through my own insecurities.
And I wonder, if he, too, is seeing through the black.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home