The Bus

You’re probably wondering why I’m in such a hurry

It’s Sunday afternoon, what’s the rush?

You see I am turning 18 this year

And that is why I must catch this bus.

I should have been happier,

Or at least more joyfully expectant

I’d soon be able to vote, drink, drive!

Then why this ghastly apprehension?

But then, you do not know this world.

It’s plans are grander than any of mine.

Every minute is scripted. Every second gone

Is an irresponsible, careless waste of time.

And when I’m already 18, I ought to know

Life’s now a struggle, a fight, a mission.

Work and earn, more and more.

Choose, decide. Excellence. Precision.

So you see, although I’d like to fly

Free as a mocking bird, without a care!

My likes and dislikes do not apply.

And thus I haven’t a moment to spare.

This bus will take me back to my desk

Where I have contraptions to keep myself in check.

– a sedative schedule to drug my wings

– curtains of words to curb my sight

– Locks, expectations, puppet strings

To prevent myself from taking flight.

Where I can use world’s plan to busy myself.

(And bury my own in my loaded bookshelf.)

So please don’t mind, I’ve got to run.

As if this bus is the only one.

I fear if I wait for the next too long

I’ll figure out why the world is wrong.

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