Lily
◕ ‿‿ ◕ double rainbow.
- 3,329
- Posts
- 19
- Years
- New Joisey
- Seen Feb 27, 2017
Extremely poop-y writing. You've been warned. =x
~Fall~
Sometimes, I just get tired.
Often during class, my eyes travel to the window. It practically begs for my attention. I suppose even an inanimate object would eventually realize being inconspicuous would grow obsolete.
Fall?s leaves scrape against the glass. Their vivacious orange, brown and yellow contrasts sharply against the pale, autumn sky. I am fully aware the teacher is calling my name. His voice is like a leaf itself, growing brittle as I ignore him. Everything is inaudible. At the moment, I am lost in my whimsical fancies, vaguely listening to the wind?s silvery melody, losing myself in its silky perfection.
The teacher is yelling now. I distinctively feel his tone dripping with abhorrence, pulsating through the classroom walls. He strides across the floor, three big steps in order to reach me, and barks my name out loud.
I turn questionably to him, inquiring the matter in which why he interrupts my blissful moments of dreaming?
He is mad. Every student is staring intently at our little conversation. I suppress labeling them pathetic, wearing the simple black and white uniform that is required, marveling how ironic it is when the teacher often digresses, ?We are independent. We are free.? Of course, I am a hypocrite. Dismissing this idea out of my mind, I return my mind to the students. They are enjoying themselves- and to my surprise -except one.
His mahogany eyes bores into my sepia cores. He has an intense, concentrating face, and I feel he is a bit too intrusive. I dislike inquisitive people, and yet, why does he look so worried? I am bewildered.
Stop, his facial expression pleads. I know he does not wish for me to get in trouble. Confusion arises. He reminds me of someone I once knew. So I stop talking, and return to the paper below my gaze, white engulfing the tiny black print I have not yet distinguished.
The teacher is unsatisfied, but acts not like so. He glares at me- a pitiful, wasteful imbecile of a student- and pivots harshly to return to his lecture.
Two hours pass before we are let out, all but one, all but me, once again.
Idiot. You need to work. If you keep this up, your future is going to be even more pathetic than it already is. The teacher?s words bites. They sting painfully against my mind, forever imprinted, the line of self esteem committing suicide. Few more stings come out rapidly. I nod numbly; taking in all of them, I stumble through the hallways, to desperately reach the crisp atmosphere.
And then, I see that boy.
He stands across the baseball field, glancing shyly at my direction. My face, I am sure, hides emotions and is totally immersed in apathy. I walk nonchalantly past him, before he stops me. His throat is caught. He wished to say something, but he cannot.
And then, I like you.
The words are foreign. They bring surprising warmth before quickly extinguished by the cruel, autumn wind. I shake my head slowly. No, I cannot accept. I do not have friends. I am not worthy. I have already lost one. Therefore, I can never love again.
Words of protests are caught in his throat again. And even so, a thousand words cannot persuade me. Perhaps I lent him a concealed smile, a smile that meant I had lost hope eternities ago. Assuaging the pain is impossible.
So I leave him standing there, freezing from the upcoming inclement weather. Sometimes, things are just too tiring. I sigh and walk, thinking briefly to myself:
If he thinks fall is cold, wait ?til he gets to winter...
~Fall~
Sometimes, I just get tired.
Often during class, my eyes travel to the window. It practically begs for my attention. I suppose even an inanimate object would eventually realize being inconspicuous would grow obsolete.
Fall?s leaves scrape against the glass. Their vivacious orange, brown and yellow contrasts sharply against the pale, autumn sky. I am fully aware the teacher is calling my name. His voice is like a leaf itself, growing brittle as I ignore him. Everything is inaudible. At the moment, I am lost in my whimsical fancies, vaguely listening to the wind?s silvery melody, losing myself in its silky perfection.
The teacher is yelling now. I distinctively feel his tone dripping with abhorrence, pulsating through the classroom walls. He strides across the floor, three big steps in order to reach me, and barks my name out loud.
I turn questionably to him, inquiring the matter in which why he interrupts my blissful moments of dreaming?
He is mad. Every student is staring intently at our little conversation. I suppress labeling them pathetic, wearing the simple black and white uniform that is required, marveling how ironic it is when the teacher often digresses, ?We are independent. We are free.? Of course, I am a hypocrite. Dismissing this idea out of my mind, I return my mind to the students. They are enjoying themselves- and to my surprise -except one.
His mahogany eyes bores into my sepia cores. He has an intense, concentrating face, and I feel he is a bit too intrusive. I dislike inquisitive people, and yet, why does he look so worried? I am bewildered.
Stop, his facial expression pleads. I know he does not wish for me to get in trouble. Confusion arises. He reminds me of someone I once knew. So I stop talking, and return to the paper below my gaze, white engulfing the tiny black print I have not yet distinguished.
The teacher is unsatisfied, but acts not like so. He glares at me- a pitiful, wasteful imbecile of a student- and pivots harshly to return to his lecture.
Two hours pass before we are let out, all but one, all but me, once again.
Idiot. You need to work. If you keep this up, your future is going to be even more pathetic than it already is. The teacher?s words bites. They sting painfully against my mind, forever imprinted, the line of self esteem committing suicide. Few more stings come out rapidly. I nod numbly; taking in all of them, I stumble through the hallways, to desperately reach the crisp atmosphere.
And then, I see that boy.
He stands across the baseball field, glancing shyly at my direction. My face, I am sure, hides emotions and is totally immersed in apathy. I walk nonchalantly past him, before he stops me. His throat is caught. He wished to say something, but he cannot.
And then, I like you.
The words are foreign. They bring surprising warmth before quickly extinguished by the cruel, autumn wind. I shake my head slowly. No, I cannot accept. I do not have friends. I am not worthy. I have already lost one. Therefore, I can never love again.
Words of protests are caught in his throat again. And even so, a thousand words cannot persuade me. Perhaps I lent him a concealed smile, a smile that meant I had lost hope eternities ago. Assuaging the pain is impossible.
So I leave him standing there, freezing from the upcoming inclement weather. Sometimes, things are just too tiring. I sigh and walk, thinking briefly to myself:
If he thinks fall is cold, wait ?til he gets to winter...