I open the window so I can listen to the falling raindrops
laugh at me and my years of wasted ambition.
arbitrariness, confinement...
Alice Cooper sings ``I'm Eighteen'',
but neither of us is close to that age anymore.
They come and go without acknowledging my existence.
They left and upon their return two hours later I was
still sitting in the same chair staring aimlessly at the spokes of the bicycle.
The rain stops and I miss its companionship,
for I seemingly have no other friend.
I waste all my time mulling about past mistakes...
If only I'd told her this or that?.?.?
the cynic tries not to care--
``Why ask Why? Drink Bud Dry.''--
but that slogan annoys the hell out of me.
I insulate myself from further suffering by my solitude,
but then I accentuate that which has already occurred.
If I had a TV I could stare at it instead of the walls...
The silence makes me feel justified.
The Saturday night partiers speed down the wet streets
and I bemoan my never existent adolescence.
Hope is all that keeps me alive but where is the dividing line
between hope and delusion?
I hate school...
