TreePupWriter

I just want to go home.
No, not only this
house that I eat in
and sleep in every night,
not only the place I live in, spend my time in.
No, I want to go to a home with a kitchen table, yes,
me and my parents

These are open window evenings.
Leaning against the screen,
watching the dusk happenings.
Flowers quiver in a gentle breeze that
flows softly through the screen,
bursting with color
though the twilight soon swallows it,

I am the way you communicate.
I am the thread that keeps you
connected to the outside world.
I am the way you write,
my keys always serving your fingers.
I am the way you
do nearly everything you need to do.

I dreamed
I was a speckled pebble
tucked in a bed of scrawny grass
sleeping
unnoticed.

Somewhere, there's a locker
brimming with a sea of things,
papers and binders someone tried to keep neat (but not very hard,
because it's not quite chaos, but it's not far from it, either.)
Somewhere a student

School is, well, school.
School is something that will make you want to scream sometimes.
Maybe.
Or cry, or just wish you could
go home already.
School is another weight to carry, heavier than a backpack full of