(I cant really tell if this is done, but it might be)
He has those little metal spikes coming out of his head
Looking like devil horns
Stuck on his hood
Draw attention away
From the so called imperfections
Of his acne covered face.
Or at least that was the intention
Cant say he pulled them off
But maybe its not that he didnt
He just sits with one pressed against the window,
The other pointed at my temple.
I can tell hes trying to ignore
The fact that his horn is scratching bite marks in the glass.
He doesnt say anything
And he doesnt need to
Because I read him like a book
He thinks hes misunderstood,
So he goes home and writes poems
Poems about girls he sees on the bus.
Im a fricking hypocrite
Ive known it for some time,
I sit at home on Halloween
Trying to find some meaning to the things I find significant
And on thanksgiving learn theres just no point
Like this bus boy
When I get off I cant help but look back
Only to see that hes staring back at me
His eyes follow me as he rides out of sight.
And then hes gone.
And I try to wonder if theres anything that
I dont know about bus boy.
