Untitled

what do I do when the leaves are dead?

what do I do with this road ahead?

i'll walk the stretch, and clear the way,

but my feet won't move today. 

what do I do when these trees are surreal?

I cried in silence again.

The tears streamed down

And made puddles on my carpet floor

I'm lying on again.

I watched the minutes change again.

the bus driver glared at me

like i was a sin to society;

he called me a fag—under his breath,

and i got in my seat like nothing happened.