The poison in his drink.

The typical.

I'm still looking for a face that wont keep me up at night. Dragging my feet in the halls that are entirely too bright, too shiny, too cold. I Drop my pencil just so I can hear the echo, and I

stop outside Mr Youngs room so I can feel like a teenager again. Wait for a scolding look so I can daydream of slipping some poison in his mysterious drink, or a gorilla in his office.

Someone should of told me calling your teachers wife hot would get you off to a bad start.

I still want to believe I could make someone fall for me, one hallow word after another. And I still believe he believes I fell for him, but we both know I was tripped, and we both know I'll never pick up the phone for him again. My phone never seems to sing the same tune, my drumset doesnt give off quite the same beat, and my fingers tap to a slightly different impatience on my notebook.

I'm speeding up my heartbeat. Walking faster than necessary, Mrs Gatchell doesnt expect me back anyway.

Avoiding corridor 3, where Mr. Long-Haired-Handsome is waiting, eyes glazed over and pretending to pay attention to Mr. Eatons slurring.

How the f**k did we end up here. Where we pretend our hands didnt brush and our eyes never met and his cologne wouldnt make a mermaid come out of water.

I've come way too far to lay down and wait to die now, I just wish I knew where I was going.

I dont even know where im coming from.

I dont even know if anyones coming along for the ride, cause lately my tongue is spiked and my fists are impatient and I'm tired of everyone taking the normal way out.

A doctor? A vet? A barber?

How about I just be a f*****g hermit. How about that.

2 outta 4 years done, and High School has brought me no closer to knowing what the f**k I'm going to do after I pass out of these double doors for the very last time.

I dont want a 9 to 5.

I dont want to pay for health insurance, or car insurance, or house insurance.

I just want to be insured that I'll be here when its over.