The Bus

The bus, the bus was waiting for me Waiting, and yet I still didn’t want it to come The steps were too steep, and the kids were always screaming or laughing The wheels were always covered in mud, but how? They never ventured off the road to school and home again Why, why are the windows tinted so much That only outwards you can see, can tell if they are staring I always try to sit alone, but the seats are always taken eventually They always whisper behind me, and I always listen as best as is good The seats always embody a scar or stain, never to fade The walkways are always full of bags, you have to trek carefully I don’t like the bus, and I don’t think it likes me