|03-28-2008, 03:42 PM||#1 (permalink)|
Join Date: Mar 2005
Cars pass by on the semi-busy town road; cracked with routine, riddled with lost purpose, polluted with business people polluting the atmosphere.
Cramped desks sit in concrete lines and bear the burden of subordination. We, though wary, are slowly worn out by their sustained weariness, as we wear them in a comfortable slouch; the way we display our education.
Crowded hallways wind through the building like congested intestines. Everyday we traverse these caves as digested matter: bumping each other, scraping the walls, constantly moving. No matter- a couple exits open up everyday at a predetermined time (that is too late) and we gush through them in a hasty manner, bullets seeking exits, creating wounds.
Containment: the parking lot. Recurring and recurring and recurring and stuck- stuck in place and time- and time again; creasing and cracking for the duration of the span of our high-school tax dollars, we're the cheap meal-plan eaten day after week after year after... after we're gone this will not starve.
Consumption. What need exists for our presence to be delectable? It would only cause constipation, and other than that, effect nothing. This affectionate appetite is transient, and then we are left behind in a pile of waste, wasting away.
A mi no me importa nada
Para mi la vida es un sueño
Last edited by Trauma; 03-29-2008 at 12:38 AM.