There is the upper class and the lower class.Some trying to make it, some hanging in crowds that bombarded the air with cigars. To blend in with the crowds of awful Saint Satan's and demonic possession of evasive angels. This place is your beneficent and you are the benefit.
This is the place where a future is rather earned than built, with brutal jokes kicking you out to leave the house. You are the dead insomniac, walking, and responding but this is your home now.
As if not being strong enough, they judge you because of ear buds and cruel laughter by passing the lonely halls streamed with photos. A museum, your grave will end up here, we build history but definitely not futures. Do not fail them, discouragement will travel to fill their empty lives with laughter and lies.
A herd of catlles unknown but tagged, lock you in a stable to stare at walls and read blank faces of the new insomniacs. The walking dead of the new year and next year. No hero here, but a lot of apathy and clichés, this time without a home coming. "This is home now," it says "Welcome to school, insomniacs. The perfect home for you."
YOU ARE READING
Kissed By The Unknown
RomanceA series of poems I wrote, from bullying, to mostly romance, to friendship, and to mysteries. It might be bad so bare with me. Mostly based on personal experiences.
