School is a feild of vines. Each vine has its own fruit. Each fruit is its own. Pumpkins can't be on a watermelon vine. I don't fit on any vine. I never have.
"Grape fruit.... My name is grape fruit"
"Okay......fruit bowl" he utters under his breath shooting a sharp smirk in my direction.
The bell dings 3 times at the end of the day. I unzip my bag and shove all my papers into it. I throw my bag over my shoulder. I take my phone out of my pocket and look at it.
"You have 0 notifications" it reads.
I roll my eyes and connect my headphones. I turn my music up so loud I can't hear the people talking around me. I walk to my bus. Bus number 4. I pick my seat and sit down. I turn and put my feet up on the seat. I pull out my note book and start writing. I'm a writer. I fit in with words. Words will never leave me out. My pencil flows with the thoughts that fill my head.
The bus approaches my stop. The wheels hiss and the door creaks open. 11 summer street. Sounds cool. Summer street. It's not great. A lot of shit goes down on this street. Drug dealers, pot heads, abusive couples. Everything.
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YOU ARE READING
Grape Fruit
Poetry"The space is important in my name." It emphasizes the pause... the pause when people realize I'm not normal. It's like biting into and orange and realizing it's actually a grapefruit. Instead of sweet juice it spits bitter spit at you. I'm grape fr...
