Bexell Hall By: Kilee De La Cruz

The rusted pipes along the building

For the paint doesn't stick, peeling off
in the sun.
The cranking of the window air conditioner
alerts the passers by that it is on
like when an old lady yells from her lawn.
The pale wrinkling finger wags in the air,
same as when the flag flies.
The beauty and bold colors jump at you from be hide the eyes.
Showing the world that you aren't lonely.
Just showing the scowl and hate in their eyes.

No right turns!

One should not break the rules
Safety is the name of the grave
One that children don't know how to play
with the taunts and chants echoing in ears
forcing others to comply.
For if someone goes against, they are a freak.
Freak, not just a dance but a hurtful word.
A word so nasty that it leaves marks.
punching your soul with it's hate.
Never to recover, scaring your heart as well as your skin.

Strange calls and phones

People walk by hurry to begin their day
Never paying attention to anyone but their phone.
Who are they talking to?
A teacher and friends or maybe a mom?
Mom's are there, in sickness and health
They make sure that your tears never run dry.
Holding your hand but taking it away.
Letting you survive on your own, only to struggle.

Goodbye ladies
A phase seldom heard
For no one really knows what that means.
Is it a see you later? Don't come back again?
The English language has no bounds.
Confusing the readers, the listeners with every turn of the word.
Stumbling rumbling blurring the words
Never to make since of anything but the ideas left unheard.