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Quetzal

Wishing for vodka again. The teachers are starting to notice. I put up a pretty good front, smile and even laugh. But my end is near, i feel it. I don't know if i can go on like this, falling and rising, and rising and falling. I keep telling them i'm just tired. Give em bogus reasons that i'm just tired, don't stay asleep, mild insomnia. But if they intervention like they threaten, i'm screwed. My reasons will bite me in the ass. My friends are making me angrier and angrier. I keep hiding out, almost constantly now. WOn't dare to look at them. Voice is getting raspy and full of emotion....ended up in another stall yesterday... Don't want to bee here anymore. I'm holding out again. Until i finish my painting, i tell myself. Wait. Wait for the beautiful quetzal. Wait..but i wish to stop breathing. Stop respirating, stop beating stop BEING. Wish for rest. Don't know why i'm so goddamn tired all the time. I do sleep. Most nights, i do. But i wake up and i know it's gonna be a horrible day, and everyone is so damn mad because they think i'm being childish, when i just wish they'd all leave me alone. I'm gonna watch scarface this weekend. Maybe american ganster. Need blood, of my own. My blood dried up long ago, has since turned to dust...a soul trapped in a deteriorating vessel..I wish for sleep. For the energy i used to have, when i was younger. When the world was my forest, and my imagination was my compass...when behind the bushes was a world of ten' purple men who loved to play tag and eat mud pies....when my hair was no matter, my ripped jeans were no matter, my dirty body was no matter, it was all ok. I feel old and tired. World-weary. Like i've got this young one trapped inside who wants to see the world and make a million friends and just be, and this other who is old and tired and has seen enough of the evil of this world to wish only for the solace of death. I wrote a poem today, in my math section. It ryhmes. Maybe, it'll make me famous. Probably not...
Rest Easy
forget thy name, quit thy humble abode...
leave off thy heavy, burgeoning load...
Here is the
sphere
on which you may rest...
the cold,
comfortable,
blanket of
death...