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School.

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Other students rushing by
heading to their class.
I walk through the halls
taking each step,
taking each breath,
feeling each touch,
inhaling that smell,
taking in the swarms of color.
I enter the classroom.
Everyone talking loud,
but me, keeping my thoughts to myself.
I put my arms down on the smooth, cold desk
still trying to find words for that smell.
It’s culture
It’s race
It’s look
It’s face
All not enough to describe it.
In the classroom,
Think about the people,
Who don’t care if they bump into you or not
Who don’t care if you trip and drop all your stuff
The people who don’t care,
don’t care about the smells
don’t care about the tastes
don’t care about the sounds
don’t care about the feels
or even the sights
the sights
of color
of anger
of humor
of embarrassment
of aggression
of oblivion
of shyness
all making up the school.
For what is,
for what it was,
and for what it will be.





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