Tell you what, no flower will follow

you to your grave if you are vain.

Here we are, on the bus, all 120 children

packed like mints.

Voices acting as katanas,

kids screaming off at each other.

Let’s talk about rumors, whirling

place to place like peonies in storm drains.

Damping anyone who dares to speak out

against the elite, the mountain’s peak.

The voices of classmates rise

like fruit flies,

as the bus chugs down the highway,

blowing it’s carbon monoxides.

The teachers are tired of fights,

so they shut their eyes.

Children, no popularity can drive

you home, no anecdote will guarantee

a place in society, or a throne of gold.

Outside these yellow busses,

a world of lies

aren’t white as clouds in the sky

No the smiles aren’t fresh,

and the teeth don’t mean their gleam,

they never led me home, or to a front yard with flowers blooming just for me.